


Smoke, Dreams and Broken Fragments.

by biblio_witch



Series: Soldier On (Bucky Barnes Trash) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cabin Fic, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblio_witch/pseuds/biblio_witch
Summary: When Hydra create a new kind of monstrosity in their labs, the Winter Soldier is tasked with controlling it. But even the hard-hearted assassin cannot standby while an innocent suffers, and it's no easy task to break her shackles and his own. She doesn't make it easy either; When she wakes, she's far from grateful for his efforts. They're stuck together for the time being, and they're both aching from the damage inflicted by Hydra, can they learn to live together?





	1. The Labs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is a new story, I think right now I'm aiming for about ten chapters. Just a quick note - It's listed as a Bucky/Reader fic, and technically it is but I find it a lot easier to write in first person than I do than in the you and Y/N format Reader fics are usually written in. So there'll be mild characterisation but you can still read it fine as a normal fic. Enjoy!

The pain is the only way of really knowing that I'm real.  

This isn't where I expected my life to end. Though... I'm not exactly sure where it started, either. There's no memory of a childhood. No murky images of a parent's face. No sense of name or nationality. Not even a vague knowledge of personality or age.

All that comes to mind is a faint flicker of irritation, a sense of wrongness, a sense of... This is  _not_ where I'm supposed to be. 

The pain wakes me up in magnificent technicolour. 

Every time it shocks me from my grey stupor, the scene is different. It's like lightning, jolting into my bones, my nerves, setting my blood on fire where before it was sluggish as mud. My body comes alive violently. My senses snap open to the world with a shock and a gasp.

When I'm not awake and screaming, my consciousness is forcibly held down. I struggle, but I'm always losing that fight.

The rooms are always sterile white. I'm always pinned to the same slab of metal. I am always strapped in with rubber harnesses. 

But sometimes there's a window. Sometimes I'm stood upright. Sometimes there's four lights in the ceiling and sometimes there's just one. Sometimes there's a tray of medical equipment next to my metal slab. Sometimes people made of shadow lean over me. 

There's no way of knowing how much time passes between bouts of consciousness. No markers to say how long I've been here or what they're doing to me.

_They're doing it to confuse you. Do not let them._

That voice is the only thing that keeps me alive. It keeps me competent when I'm shrieking in agony, and it chatters when I'm asleep and in need of company.

Is it my voice? I wouldn't know. I only hear myself screaming these days.

 _Do not cry in front of them_ , it hisses. 

 _They're keeping you drugged, that's why you're so groggy_ , it informs. 

 _I know you're hungry, but you will not beg,_ it demands.  

 _Don't scream,_  it snarls.  _Don't scream, don't scream, don't scream._  

It has to tell me that more often than anything else. 

Occasionally, there's something truly interesting to look at.

When that happens, I wake up all at once. Even my soul seems to take a breath. My lungs start to work and my limbs too, and I'm not in pain at all but I'm full to the brim with the newness of the view. 

The first time, I open my eyes and everything is on fire. 

The walls, the floor, the people in front of me are bellowing because the fire is eating them. It's a livid red flame, so bright it stings my eyes, so hot it singes the hair off my arms and my legs.

It floods over everything, over every surface, rushing from one victim to the next. It engulfs the shadowy people fast, too fast for them to escape. They batter at the door for freedom, but this only makes the flames more determined to consume them.

I'm screaming too but not in pain... In exhilaration. It's the first time I've felt alive in... I don't know how long. My whole damn existence, it seems.

I'm still strapped to the table, but I'm upright and I'm not afraid of the flames. In fact, I urge them towards me. Just take me, I beg them. Take me and end it all. 

My silent plea seems to gain the attention of the flames. It rushes over the floor and towards my bare toes. I'm not afraid, not even a little.

Before the flames can engulf me, a shadow lands at my feet with a thud. It's a big shadow, tall and broad and dense. It looms over my head and the harsh light from the fire means I cannot see anything but darkness. 

It reaches, and for a moment the light reflects off the hand it reaches with. That confuses me. Its hand should be as dark as the rest of its form. 

The strap around my throat gets yanked free. Then my ribs, my wrists, my thighs, my ankles. The shadow is quick and efficient, too efficient; I slump without the support, my legs not used to the weight. 

Before I can fold inwards and land with a painful thump, the shadow catches me and hoists me up. It's male; I know this because the chest it cradles me against is flat and hard. He's a solid wall of warmth, and he handles me like I'm a newborn baby.

He passes through the flame like it's nothing more than a stiff breeze. He doesn't falter and he doesn't stop to help the hollering, thrashing people dying around us.

We emerge together into a white corridor, and I'm desperately gasping at the fresh air. I'm about to look up into the face of my savour, but... There's a door.

I start to thrash. Because at the end of the corridor there's a door, and the voice is screaming,  _screaming_ , because this is a chance. It could be the  _only_ chance.

"Stop," The shadow grunts as it grapples with my twisting limbs. "You can't-" 

I can't speak, I think I forgot how to, but I still know how to ball my fist and throw it as hard as I can.  

The shadow hisses and drops me. I go down hard, bruising my hip and thigh and shoulder. But I'm scrambling up and marvelling at how quick you can learn to run when the occasion calls for it.  

 "Wait!" The shadow shouts after me. He's panicked. I'm surprised he's not angry. 

I'm at the end of the corridor in a flash. The metal of the door is what brings me to a bruising, skidding stop. I'm sobbing hard, tears blurring my vision, because I'm so afraid that the handle won't budge when I yank on it.

My shaking hands fumble, but I pull hard and the door opens, and I let loose a cry of profound relief.

I hear heavy footfall behind me. I fall into the room beyond, hysterical with joy that I've made it, I turn, ready to run again-  

Everything goes blurry. Pain at my hip, like a pinch. I look down. A needle squats in my skin like some sort of livid insect, embedded deep into my flesh and spurting liquid that makes my knees tremble. 

Hands catch me at the ribs as I stumble back into a solid mass of hard, unyielding muscle. One hand is warm, gentle. The other is cold, and not so much hard but more... Heavy. The grip is tighter, stronger. 

My vision fails before I can hit the floor. 

*** 

After that first incident with the fire, that shadow is always lurking in the corner of my vision. 

I can tell it's him because he's bulkier than everyone else. Wider and taller and his stance is less skittish and more imposing. 

The people scuttle around me after the fire, flinching when I twitch and sweating when I stare at them. 

After the fire, even the rubber straps holding me down get tighter. 

The shadow doesn't move when I turn my gaze his way. He's always stood back against a wall, where the light doesn't reach, where's he's out of the way. Watching, assessing, guarding my captives or guarding the exit from me, I'm not sure what his purpose is.

The fluorescent light from above glitters strangely off his left side. No matter how he shifts to hide it, there's a faint glow that always tells me where he's standing in the room. 

 _It's metal_ , the voice murmurs, in a way that adds a silent 'duh' to the end of the sentence. 

 _Pardon?_ I'm bewildered by the statement. 

_He's got a fucking metal arm, you moron._

Clearly, the voice is getting tired of my stupidity. It's irritated I didn't do more to escape after the fire. 

 _You could have burned them alive_ , it snaps. 

 _How'd you figure that one?_ I snort in response. 

_Who do you think lit up that room, genius?_

I don't reply. I can't. 

***

The second incident is different. It's calmer. It is... Freezing cold. 

When I suck in a breath, it burns on the way down. When I blow it out in surprise, my breath rushes away from me in a visible puff of smoke. 

I realise then that I'm shivering from head to toe, and when I glance around, I'm furious to find it's snowing. 

I'm still in a room, still strapped down. But there's a flurry of ice that's coming from all sides, not just the ceiling. It settles on the floor and on the surfaces and it's quickly coating everything. 

Including the shadow in the corner. 

He hasn't moved, but it seems everyone else has taken cover from the storm, because we're alone.

I can't see his eyes, but I'm looking in the general direction of his face for any sign that he might rip me free again. 

Apparently not, because he doesn't move a muscle. 

How can it be me making this mess? I thought I made the fire? Maybe this is another way to torture me, like the lightning that brings so much pain. I wouldn't be surprised.

Maybe he's been ordered to stand guard no matter how uncomfortable it gets. For a moment, I even feel bad for him. 

 _He stopped you from leaving_ , the voice is furious. 

He saved my life. 

 _He works for them_ , it's a shout. 

I'm aware of that. 

 _Then stop staring_ , it grumbles. 

It would be nice to talk to someone other than you! 

The man shifts, and my eyes are on him again in a flash. He's moving, fiddling with something. He starts towards me. 

Maybe he'll get me out of this room! 

 _I doubt it_ , the voice snorts. 

He saved me from the fire. 

 _Snow won't kill you_ , if the voice had eyes it would roll them. 

By the time I stop arguing with my own brain, he's stood over me. His hair is long, falling in lank dark waves to beneath his chin. It falls into his face so I can't make out anything but the vague shape of it.

He shrugs out of his heavy jacket, one arm at a time, and drops it over me. He reaches to pull it up to my chin, reaching only with his right arm. His left he leaves at his side, shifting so it's angled a little behind his frame. 

Despite the shadow's efforts, I'm staring in baffled awe. 

His arm is... Entirely metal. A stark, shining silver. It disappears up under the black sleeve of his shirt, which comes to his bicep. I wonder if his shoulder is metal too. I wonder how far the metal extends. 

Is this normal? I can't remember much, but insignificant things I still remember. Like I know I'm speaking English. I recognise the medical equipment they use on me sometimes. I know basic knowledge. It arrives from nowhere, but I know it. I'm sure, certain in fact, that his arm is not normal for a prosthetic limb. 

"I guess we're both strange." His voice is low. Strained. He's still tucking the huge jacket around me. 

I was so distracted by the arm I completely ignored the delicious heat that's settled over me. The jacket is still warm from his body. Obviously then, he's human. A robot would have given me a cold jacket.

He's referring to his arm making him strange. When I look confused, he gestures around the room to indicate that this is what makes  _me_ strange.

I did it? How? There again, the sense of wrongness. This is not where I belong, this is not something... I've always been able to do. 

I can't reply. Still don't know how to talk. Afraid to. What if they bring back the lightning? I prefer the snow so much more to the lightning. 

He starts to back away, retreating to his corner, his job done. But he stops. Turns back, shifts his big shoulders and flexes the metal fingers. They look like real fingers, move like them too.

The light hits his face a little differently. Snow has settled into his hair and on his shoulders. I see the curve of a jaw, the straight line of a nose. Even the sparkle of harsh blue eyes. He's... Handsome. 

 _Stop it_ , the voice growls. 

"I'm-" The shadow stops. Tilts his head to the side. Rolls his snow-covered shoulders. He's struggling. "My name-..." 

He can't find it. I see him trying, itching to tell me. I'm staring expectantly, eyebrows raised. Blinking snow out of my eyes so I can watch for the arrival of this new information.

The shadow chokes a little, splutters. After a moment, he gives up. Turns around, stomps back to his corner. 

He doesn't have a name. They've taken it from him like they've taken it from me. 

 _Doesn't mean you're on the same side_ , the voice barks. 

***

The third time is bad. 

The third time is really, really bad. 

I wake in agony. In so much agony that it sets my spine on fire and my mouth opens and I can't stop the screams from emerging like the rage of that inferno wants out into the world. 

My body is thrashing. My limbs struggling up and away, but I'm strapped flat down and I'm not surprised. Not surprised at all that this is happening. 

There are people rushing round the room, yelling, ducking away from me like I'm swinging wildly. 

I'm not though. Of course I'm not, because they've pinned me like an animal and now I'm acting like one. Shrieking, clawing, throwing myself at my captors madly. 

It feels like a thousand knives all over my battered body. It feels like they've dunked my brain in ice. It feels like... It feels like I'm dying. 

The voice isn't hollering at me to keep quiet. It's not trying to hush me, because the voice is screeching in torment too. 

Lightning peels through the room and hits a piece of machinery that goes up in a volley of sparks. 

A particularly vicious stab to the abdomen, and I let loose a shriek. In answer another fork of brilliant, glowing lightning hits a scurrying scientist. They hit a nearby wall so hard I hear the snap of bone even over my screaming.  

Good, let her die. Let them all die. Let them suffer like I've suffered. 

I'm sobbing and gasping and screaming and I can't breathe. I can't do anything but feel the agony in my veins and my skull and my bones. 

It's like my very blood has been turned to searing poison, there only to punish. 

Another bolt lights up the room, and I see my shadow in the corner. I don't remember much happening since the snow, since he gave me his jacket, but that could have been weeks ago. Months even.

They keep me groggy. 

He's not moving. He's not trying to help anyone else, though there are more than a few people who need it. He's simply watching me.

My spine arches upwards as the fire surges in me again, and the strap over my hips snaps with a crack like a whip. The scientists don't notice. 

I'm throwing my head back to the table as hard as I can with the little room I have. There's no strap over my neck this time, sometimes they remove it when they think it'll choke me. I have leverage to slam my skull against the metal. Nobody stops me. 

With a heave that snaps something important in my bicep, the restraint on my left wrist tears free. 

In my hysteria, in my agony, I reach for that shadow. The shadow that has shown me kindness once. That has saved my life once. I reach for him in blind desperation. 

He moves like I've compelled him to do so. He moves so quickly it's like I've drawn him to me with the sheer power of will. 

Lightning is vaulting off every surface. Targeting everything that moves. It's destroying machinery and windows and tiles and people. 

He moves through it all like he's made of nothing more than smoke and dreams. He's at my side in a moment, looming over me, darkness and metal and broken fragments. 

The cold of his fingers relieves the pain in my palm. It is a tiny pinprick of relief. But I'm so grateful for even that that I let loose a desperate sob and clutch at his offered hand tighter. 

He doesn't flinch away from the destruction in the room. He doesn't even glance around at the cacophony of messy noise. 

The grip is hard and unyielding. That metal hand is the only thing in the world I know to be real. 

I look up into his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, and they're full of tears and terror and fury. And I wonder why he's crying, he's fine,  _he's_ not strapped down. 

But he was kind before, so I hope he'll be kind now.

"Kill me." It could have been a whisper or a growl or a scream, I'm not sure. My voice is like dry sand, scratchy and painful and empty. 

His eyes go wide, his eyebrows go high, and the metal hand tightens around my bruised flesh. 

"Please." I beg. It's desperate. It's shameful. But I've survived all I can, and this is enough. I tried. I really did, but this is where I say enough. 

We're looking at each other. He can see I'm serious and I can see his answer. 

"I can't." Is his reply. 

My hand frees itself with a wrench. My fury is all-consuming. My wrath eats my soul whole. 

A flash of searing white hits him straight in the chest. He's blasted backwards, a real man of flesh and blood and bone and not shadow at all. 

I'm forced under the black abyss. Kicking and screaming and fighting, before he even hits the ground. 


	2. The Journey.

They've decided to move her.

I knew the decision was coming.

It was only logical; this location is too remote, and now it's too damaged. She's caused enough destruction that there's no labs left to store her in. This facility was a risk to begin with. The original test subjects caused enough wreckage during their programme. Of course, now she's added her own effort to the task. These buildings are completely uninhabitable; her effort is... Quite astounding.

She's under heavy sedation right now. They've stopped the torture. Too afraid to proceed after she lit that lab up like a fucking firework show.

Everyone is on edge.

The scientists scatter like leaves in a stiff wind every time she twitches in her sleep. Even the soldiers stay well away.

She tossed me across that room like a damn raggedy doll. They'd ordered me to contain her. Put her down like all the others if the situation got out of hand. The hours I spent convulsing and vomiting after that hit she landed on my chest has scared everyone. I'm the  _Winter Soldier_. She kicked my ass in front of the people who'd assumed they were safe because I was there. They thought I was their best weapon against the new one they were desperately trying to create.

They're moving her to a bigger facility with more personnel and tighter security. She'll have more guards and more extreme methods of containment.

"I'm going to recommend a stop to the entire process."

My head twitches at the news, but they don't look at me. They mostly forget I'm here, which makes it easy to listen in to the scientists. Though I'm not sure what the fuck they're talking about half the time.

"The higher-ups won't like that." The other replies. One male, one female. The male's eyes go soft when the Subject is awake, and his hands shake when she starts screaming. The female is... Nastier.

I wish I knew her name, but they only ever refer to her as Subject 13, and I'm not authorised to look at any records. I'm authorised only as far as a guard dog would be; I can open doors and I can close them behind me.

"They'll have to like it." The male shrugs, his eyes are tight as he examines the X-Rays of 13's arm, the bone in her bicep snapped clean in half. "We push any harder and she'll burn out like the rest of them. She's displayed more than enough. More than anyone. They'll have to make due with the abilities she's developed."

"But the results last time-" The female glances down at 13's battered body of with an empty, appraising stare. There's no sympathy, not even when she prods a pencil at the burns snaking their way up her forearms. "Maybe another method-"

"We've tried enough." His voice is hard, and I'm surprised when he knocks the pencil from 13's skin. The female scowls at him. "We expose her to that much stress again and her heart could give way. She's already displaying self-destructive behaviour; that much is obvious from her broken arm." He sighs as he turns his gaze to the monitors beside the metal slab she's strapped down against. "Besides... They want a competent weapon, don't they? The trauma will already have a damning effect on her mental capabilities. Who knows the state she'll be in when they decide to wake her up? They want to condition her into Hydra, they want a weapon that they can control... They'll have to stop before she breaks."

The female seems a little more satisfied with this observation. "You don't think they'll be able to train her?"

"I think she can be moulded." He muses, "I think she's so powerful she could change everything, change the world. But what the body is capable of and what the mind can handle..." He shakes his head.

"You think that we won't be able to control her?" The question is sharp.

I'm barely moving. Barely daring to breathe. They never speak this freely in front of me.

"It's not a question of whether or not we could. It's a question of..." A small smile plays at the edge of his mouth, and in this moment I like him, a bit. "A question of whether she'll allow herself to be controlled."

"We've done it before." And though she doesn't glance my way, I know she's referring to me. To the programme in my goddamn brain that means I can't resist any orders given to me.

He waves a hand at this statement. He's still examining the monitors, the papers, their results; their observations and methods. He's put this girl through hell, and he's documented it like he would the process of dissecting a frog. Suddenly, I don't like him at all. Suddenly, I want to rip his damn throat out.

"You're not coming with us right away?" The woman asks. She's lost interest, moving around the room methodically. The process of transferring their Subject has been a huge, rushed ordeal.

Dunno why, she's only a little wisp of a thing, it's not like she's got much to move with her.

"I'll follow in a few days, though I doubt I'll have much authority when I get there. They'll be assigning dozens more to her team. More of us and more grunts too." By grunts he means soldiers. This is valuable information, too valuable to miss. "They gave us scraps in the first phase. Now that she's the sole survivor... They'll be throwing resources into her further development. She's exceeded anything they could have hoped."

"I'm assigned to the journey." The female grunts, irritated with the task. "They need at least three of us in case she has an episode. You know the grunts though, always insisting on throwing their weight around as if they know best."

The man hums, agreeing without contributing to the conversation.

It goes quiet for a while, and I'm furiously working over the information while they meander about.

I already made the decision to do something when she reached for me that day. If she'd taken my hand and asked me then to get her out, I'd have done it. If she'd asked me to kill everyone in that room, I'd have done it. But when she'd looked up at me, eyes full of tears and torture, and she'd asked me to kill her, I couldn't do it. I thought about it. Thought about reaching for that pale, bruised neck. About wrapping my hand around it, squeezing until the hum of her heart had settled into stillness.

But I couldn't. Couldn't do it anymore than I can find my name in amongst the ruins of my mind.

But now... They're moving her. Moving her to a location better protected and more efficiently run. Meaning that once we get there, we won't be leaving. And if they're adding personnel to her team, more soldiers and more scientists, will they need me? They'll need me for the journey, I have no doubt of that, but it's already obvious that I'm not enough to contain her.

Whose to say I won't be removed from the mission as soon as we touch down at the facility? They might wipe my memory one final time and shove me into cryo-freeze. Then who knows how long it will be before I manage to hear a whisper of her, let alone see her again.

Something has to be done. If I can't give her the release she wants, I'll at least do her the honour of getting her the fuck out of Hydra.

****

The truck we're stuffed in is not the most steady of vehicles.

There's seven of us. Three scientists, two soldiers, myself and Subject 13.

She's strapped in upright, held down harsher than usual. She's wearing more than they usually put her in too; cotton trousers and a long sleeved shirt, with no shoes. Everything about her looks fragile. The shining bruises on her throat and the scratches along the swell of her cheekbone. The sickly pale skin exposed to the inky blue interior lights.

Every time I look at her, my insides boil hotter with anger.

The vibes I'm giving off must be more than a little hostile, because everyone else is fidgeting. The scientists opposite flinch every time I shift. The soldier sat on my right is practically on her neighbours lap she's so eager to lean away from me. It's hard not to smirk.

"Vitals are normal." One of the scientists announces nervously, glancing down at his tablet. He announces it to the air rather than muttering it to his colleagues, and he peaks to check my reaction. I nod.

Not long now. We've been travelling for six hours already. Everyone must be uncomfortable, but I'm used to it. It would be stranger for me to feel comfy. Hydra hasn't exactly made a name for itself by being kind and gentle to the people it holds captive.

I'm damn lucky they haven't wiped my memory lately. The last time was three weeks ago, a couple of days after 13 lit up that lab with lightning. It makes me erratic and clumsy for a while after, and they knew they needed me alert and steady for this journey. Those three weeks gave me plenty of time to gather - steal - what I needed.

A jolt in the road makes my insides churn. It's almost time.

No matter how cold and vacant I seem, my insides never fail to tremble when I know that violence approaches.

That's usually what breaks down Hydra's programming. It's why they have to wipe me so often; I know, even when I don't know myself, that I'm not truly the empty monster they want me to be. I'm not the cold assassin, comfortable with murder and chaos and violence. If I was, why would fear grip me so absolutely in the moments before?

"Time check." I ask the solder beside me.

She flinches back so hard she almost headbutts the guy next to her.

"Uh," She struggles with her sleeve in her haste, "Thirteen hundred hours, sir."

Must be a newbie. The soldiers fear me at first, before they see me get kicked around by my handlers. Then the soldiers realise I'm nothing more than a badly treated pet, and they grow courageous.

But this is good news. "Exactly?" I demand.

She frowns, "Exactly."

I've got thirty seconds. 

I turn to the scientist opposite. It's the woman whose big mouth proved invaluable to my plans. The one who poked at 13's wounds like she had a right to do it. The one who sneered when she screamed, who urged them to continue the torture.

"You." My voice has changed to a low growl, and everyone tenses. My fingers flex, and the cold blue light warps the metal into something harsh and threatening.

She looks up at me, raises her eyebrows like she's not worried, but her iron grip on her tablet says otherwise.

"Do you feel any sympathy for her?"

Twenty seconds. 

She doesn't even get who I'm speaking about until my eyes flick to the Subject. The young woman, whose name I don't even know because they refuse to say it out loud. All the pent up anger I've felt these last couple of months is building in the back of my throat. She's staring at me like she's afraid I'll lunge, and I'm thinking about it. They deserve it. They've tortured her, or they've watched it happen. They've smirked while they've done it. Prodded her to make her scream louder. They've watched her sob and howl and break her own bones, and they've looked on with lazy expressions.

The scientist purses her lips. She thinks she's got control of me. Thinks that the mission objective will prevent me from hurting her.

But the mission was to protect and contain the Subject. I've spent weeks convincing myself that the best way to contain her is to get her away from Hydra. The best way to beat the programming is to convince it I'm doing exactly what I've been ordered to do.

"The work is necessary." The scientist tells me, and her grip has loosened on the tablet. She's convinced herself I'm not a threat. "For the future of Hydra."

"Hail Hydra!" The rest of the truck echoes automatically. It's what's taught. Conditioned. They'll die for it.

I won't. She wont either.

Five seconds. 

They've all noticed I haven't said the words. The scientist has raised eyebrows, the others beside her have open mouths. The soldiers beside me are starting to inch for their weapons. They'll assume I've gone rogue again, assume - like so many other times - that I'm going to lash out.

A mighty, deafening bang makes everyone but me duck in terror. The truck shudders, swaying erratically from side to side as the driver struggles to get it under control. The truck careens to the side, screeches, gives another echoing bang, and comes to a juddering, shaky stop.

Everyone gives a scream or a shout as they find themselves flung every which way. But I was holding myself in place with my hand hooked under the bench I'm sat on. I expected it, planned it, even.

Some are on the floor, some have landed on benches.

I take a breath and stand, look upon the mess of bodies, listen to the groans and the questions.

"Soldier?" One of the scientists asks me, unsteady. It's the younger one.

I shoot him between the eyes. The blast of the gun sets my ears ringing, but it causes chaos. Everyone is scrambling up and away, fighting for the door, but they make it easier for me.

One soldier whirls, the woman, yelling in Russian, eyes wild as she fumbles for her gun. She's sweating, crying. I feel bad, but I shoot her too.

I shoot again. Again.

All the soldiers are dead, and two of the scientists. It's been quick, they've all died instantly. None of them have suffered.

The only one left standing is the woman. She's trying to find the latch to open the door, heaving at it, hollering for the driver. There's banging on the other side of the door, which tells me the driver has come to help.

I let her find the latch. Let her kick open the doors, let her throw herself into the final soldier's arms, hollering all the while.

It's easy to aim. I hate how fucking easy it is.

The soldier goes down, a bullet between the eyes, and the scientist goes with him. She's gasping, fighting to get out from under his heavy limbs. Covered in a spray of blood.

The thud of my boots on the concrete is loud, and she's scrambling up, ready to take flight. I aim for the spot a foot in front of her feet and she comes to a trembling stop. Her hands go up into the air, and she twists around slowly. She's not saying anything, and she's crying, shaking all over.

My stare is accusatory.

"I  _do_  feel bad." She weeps, forcing the words out roughly. "I hated hurting that girl. I hate what they did to her. But it's the job! You have to act like you enjoy it, or you'll end up dead!"

"You made it worse." I spit. "You wanted to be harsher. You wanted to carry on."

"I knew they would never listen to me!" She scoffs, and backs up a little as I advance. "But it's best to seem ruthless! It's best to seem like you love it!"

"Okay." I nod, lower the gun to my side. Her eyes grow hopeful. "Tell me her name."

She goes pale so quickly I fear she may faint. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. Her eyes go wide. She's struggling.

I raise my eyebrows.

She's shaking her head, backing up, hands outstretched to ward me off. "Why would I know it?" She asks desperately.

The gun goes up, my finger goes to the trigger. I grit my teeth.

"You'll die for this." She snarls. Her whole face has changed. She's wearing a sneer. Adrenalin is pumping as she comes to terms with the notion of her own death. It's made her brave. "You can't save that  _freak_. They'll find you and when they do you'll be slaughtered. That little monster will suffer all the more for your stupidity."

I shoot her.

She goes down with a snarl on her lips and fury in her eyes.

I can't linger. There's work to do.

My bag is taped to the bottom of the drivers seat, I retrieve it, discard the tape, and check everything inside is fine. The maps, files, clothes and wads of cash were worth carrying. While I'm in the cab, I destroy anything and everything that could give off a traceable signal. Next are the tablets. They're very breakable, and I toss the mess into the back of the truck. Then there's the bodies.

I haul them into the truck too, collect the weapons left on the soldiers, and add them to my bag.

Done, I climb back up into the driver's seat and start the engine.

The small, controlled explosion blew out the back left tyre. I turn the vehicle off the road and into the woods that stretch along both sides of the concrete. The forests are dense, absolute, and very hard to search through. They stretch for miles, dozens of miles, and hopefully this will give us some much needed time.

I manoeuvre as best as I can through the trees, but it takes all my enhanced skill to squeeze the truck through. After about fifteen minutes of driving as erratically and randomly as possible, I bring it to a stop.

Camouflaging the top takes more time than I'd like, but it's worth the effort. Choppers will find it much harder to locate.

Finally, my checklist complete, I go back for her.

She hasn't stirred, but I don't expect the sedative to wear off for another forty-eight hours. Good job too, because the journey isn't easy, and it's one best travelled unconscious.

I run a hand over her face, careful of the cuts and bruises, vowing right there to forever be gentle with her.

"Everything is gonna be fine." I tell her.

She doesn't look too convinced. 


	3. The Flight.

I wake all at once.

It took me an age to realise that I wasn’t being forced into the dark. It felt like that for a long time. Like there was a hand on the back of my neck and it was bracing me against rising back to the surface of reality. Instead I existed only in the black abyss, so deep even the voice in my head couldn’t keep me company.

But the breath I inhale is a rush of chilly air, and it brushes against my lungs and heart and the backs of my eyes. And the shock of it forces every single sense out of the dull prison I’ve been kept in.

My eyes snap open.

The ceiling is not white. It’s brown wood. That’s new. That’s… Brand new. A flicker of my newly awakened eyes and I find a window to the right. It’s framed by blue curtains, and reveals the scene of a dense forest on its way into autumn.

Is this… Real?

Touch comes back slower. But as soon as feeling rushes back into my limbs and my fingertips, my heart starts to quicken. I’m not strapped down. I’m not on a metal slab.

My fingers inch outwards from my body. A plush, thick mattress with soft bedding. If I push downwards, the springs buried inside push back. I twitch my legs and the pressure of the heavy duvet surprises me. I’m not used to the weight of something warm, it stifles me a little, but it’s not unpleasant.

Is this… Another trap?

I’m too frightened to move. If I moved back in the labs, they zapped me. Hit me. Strapped me down so tight it was hard to breathe. If I move too quickly, I’ll be punished.

But when I shift my head to test if I’m in pain, no punishment comes. No voices. No commotion. I’m… Alone.

I haven’t been alone in a very long time.

Okay. Just like a plaster. Yank it off. Face the consequences.

I move suddenly. Throwing the heavy duvet off and away from my body. Sitting up and swinging my legs off the side of the bed and onto the floor.

My shoulders hunch inwards, expecting a blow, a flash of pain, a furious shout.

Nothing. Huh.

I glance down. They never used to give me clothes, but I’m wearing them now. The jogging bottoms are grey, thick and far too big. The shirt is even bigger, black with short sleeves. I’ve even got fluffy socks on.

I don’t see how I would have got out of those labs. I don’t see how it’s possible that I’d have escaped and ended up somewhere safe.

And yet… Someone dressed me. Dressed me with care. Enough care that they didn’t want me to have cold feet.

Whoever has me now is a little less cruel than the people who had me before.

But it doesn’t mean I’m safe yet.

I stand from the bed, flexing my legs and toes and calves as I do. My limbs are working fine, though various aches and pains let me know that I have a few left-over injuries.

My feet work though, so I hobble to the door. On my way there I notice a fireplace built into one wall, with a rocking chair and a shaggy rug. The floor and walls are all made of rich tan wood.

My fingers brush the doorknob. I’m terrified it’ll be locked, because that means I’m still a captive. I’m terrified it’ll be unlocked, because that means I’m in unknown territory.

My hand squeezes, twists, but it's a second before I can yank. When I do find the courage, the door swings towards me.

Strange, how an open door can send shock and horror and delirious joy through you all at once.

I pause to savour this taste. The taste of hope in the back of my throat, my throat that's ruined and ravaged by the force of my screaming. Tears come to my eyes, but I do not let them fall.

Choking the taste of joy down is hard. Swallowing it so it's snuffed out is harder.

This could be a trick. It could be another game. A new unique way to torture me.

The step out into the corridor takes longer than my pride would have me admit. I’m shaking all over and too scared to go quickly.

There’s an old rug that runs the length of the corridor. A glance to the left reveals a dead-end, but there’s a window there that reveals the same forest from my own window. The colour inside that one window frame makes my chest hurt. White is such a horrid colour to be immersed in for so long. The shock of greens and browns and reds and oranges makes tears well again.

There are two other doors on this corridor, but I don’t open them in case they reveal people. I move instead to the open doorway at the right end of the corridor, silent as a wraith.

It’s less a doorway and more a big archway that leads out into the living area. It’s actually… Really nice. There's a huge stone fireplace right in the middle of the space, and it climbs up to attach itself to the ceiling. This acts as a divider between the kitchen and a small living room. The kitchen is large enough to even accommodate a small island. The living room harbours two worn couches, an armchair, and a jumble of mismatched furniture.

The space is bright and warm and not scary at all.

Except. Except. Except. There’s a man on the fucking couch.

I go still as stone. But my blinding panic fades a little to intense stress, because he’s sleeping soundly on his back. His legs are up and one hand droops to the floor. His breathing is even and deep.

There’s a door passed the fireplace. It leads straight out into the forest.

The journey across the room is so stressful I start to sweat. But I get there. Get there so quick I’m impressed with myself. My fingers encircle the handle. Squeeze it. Quietly now.

I glance back to check on the man. He’s still asleep, and I can see his face clearly from here. He’s got stubble on his chin and lanky dark hair. What is even more clear is the hand that rests on the floor, before hidden by a low coffee table and a long-sleeved shirt. The hand is made of silver metal.

It’s my shadow. He’s alive. Alive and here.

I thought I’d killed him.

_Hurry up_ , the voice snaps back into existence, absolutely furious.

You’ve been gone a while, I snap back.

_You’ve not acted like a damn idiot up until this point,_ it hisses, _open the door!_

I snort in irritation. It escapes me before I can stop it. The sound is… So loud in the silent room.

My shoulders seize up. My mind whirls. My heart starts to pound.

I watch, courage in my throat, as the man with the metal arm goes still as a corpse. He isn’t sleeping anymore. He is very much awake.

My body decides before my petrified brain can lend a helping hand. My hand squeezes, wrenches, and the door is open and my feet are moving.

The cabin is elevated above ground. I notice this only as I stumble down a flight of wooden steps that deposits me onto the forest floor.

The desperate scramble of movement tells me he’s up and following. Following too fast for me to think escape is even possible.

But I’ve got to try.

I've got no idea where I am, so I pick a direction and I run in it.

It's only a moment before I hear the slap of his feet hitting the wood of the stairs, and then there is only silence. Despite the largeness of his body, his pursuit is absolutely silent. It's unnerving, and if anything, the absence of sound makes me go faster.

Of course, there's no chance of him losing me, because I'm making more noise than a rampaging baby elephant.

I'm wheezing with the effort of my flight. Kicking leaves with my socked feet as I sprint. Yelping as I dodge trees and stumble over concealed branches and sticks.

Graceful is not the word you'd use to describe my flight from the cabin.

My panic is blinding me, my desperation tastes like copper on my tongue. My heart is beating so hard against my ribs I feel it behind my eyeballs and in my temples. I can't go back there, I can't let him get me.

But I know he's faster than I am. He's trained. He hasn't been strapped down to a metal table.

I'm weak and I'm skinny and I'm underfed and I'm exhausted.

Not that it matters. I'm desperate. I'm wild with terror. I'm consumed entirely with my desire to get away.

He appears in front of me so suddenly it’s like he’s made of mist and magic. A scream tears its way out of my throat and shatters the peace of the forest. I try to wrench away from the sight of him and hurtle towards freedom at the same time. My feet get tangled and my ankles twist and I land in a sprawled heap at his feet.

He’s gasping, eyes wide, reaching down for me with one flesh hand and one metal. The sight panics me so much I throw my palms up to slap him away. But as I toss them up, intent on only keeping him away, a flash of blinding light flits from my skin. It misses his shoulder and carves a foot-long blackened wound into a nearby tree trunk. It was inches away from ripping his metal arm right off his body.

“Shit, shit.” He curses and wrenches back and away.

I’m up on my feet, holding my palms towards him like I know what I’m doing. That was an accident. I don’t know how to control it. He doesn’t have to know that.

My breath is coming in short gasps and I’m sweating everywhere a person is possibly able to sweat. Fear is turning my legs to jelly and the sight of him is not putting me at ease.

“Stop.” He’s urging, doing it softly like he’s not a threat. “Please, you have to stop.”

My face must twist in a nasty way, because he backs up again and holds up his hands in surrender.

“I get it, all right?” His eyes are grey steel, and they’re wild with desperation as he speaks in low, calming tones. “I get you’re scared. I’m sorry I chased you like that. But you have to stop running. You can’t run.”

I’m looking left and right, searching for an opening, hoping I can get passed him if only I can throw that lightning again. But he shifts every time I do. Mirroring me. There’s no way passed him.

_Kill him,_  the voice hollers,  _kill this asshole!_

How can I? I don’t know how to throw the lightning and he’s so much bigger than I am. Stronger and faster too. I’m tired and I’m in pain and he’s not going to let me go anywhere.

My knees buckle and I stumble. He reaches to catch me but I’m already sinking to the floor. Panicking and gasping and full of shame and fury and desperation.

“Hey, hey.” His voice is soft and so is his face as he moves to kneel in front of me. My hands go up to ward him off but nothing happens, no matter how much I want it to. I’m so angry at myself, angry at him and at them and at the whole damn world for doing this to me.

Unbelievably, a sob escapes me. My shoulders heave inwards and my lungs squeeze and my throat clenches. I cannot stop the pathetic, rasping noises that rush out of me like a flock of frightened starlings.

I can only glance at him through the veil of my matted hair. I must be a pathetic sight, but there’s no disgust on his handsome face. There’s a twisted sort of pain, a curl of his mouth that might be pity or sympathy or a compact form of fury. He’s angry that I’m crying, and I’m angry too.

“I’m so sorry.” He mutters, shuffling forward on his knees so he can peer passed all my hair and look into my eyes. “I’m so sorry I frightened you.”

Ah. It’s not me he’s angry at. It’s himself.

“Please,” He’s reaching with his flesh hand, keeping the metal one hidden behind his back. Still, it’s not the metal I’m scared of. It’s him. I flinch anyway. His eyebrows inch together, troubled and frustrated. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He tries to prove it. He tries reaching for my hands which are resting limp on top of my knees, palms up. My fingers twitch in protest, but I cannot find the words to tell him to get off. He tries again, laying his warm fingers against the chill of my palms. His hands are so much bigger than mine, big enough that he can rest his little finger on one palm and his thumb on the other. His pale hand dwarfs mine. He’s warmer, too. More warm than I’d expect.

“I swear on my life I’m not going to hurt you.” He’s leaning forward, eyes earnest, voice urgent. He wants me to believe him. I have no reason to. The promise of his life means nothing at all to me.

I’m so sick of being weak. I’m so sick of doing absolutely nothing to save myself. The fury that overwhelms me packs more of a punch than my sorrow does. More even than my fear.

I throw myself up and passed him. Shove him hard to the side as I do. I know there’s no way I’ll escape. But I’ve got to try. Maybe if I’m panicked enough the lightning will come back.

His arms encircle my lower legs and I go down hard, landing with a grunt and a flash of pain. My legs thrash and my hands claw at the ground, desperate to wrench his hold from my body.

“You can’t run, dammit!” He shouts, hooks his hands behind my knees, and yanks me through the leaves and the mud until I’m beneath him.

I’m still on my front, so I take a breath and thrust my elbow upwards, and he swears as it hits him in the stomach. He’s trying to pin my legs with his feet and my torso with his hips and my arms with his hands. I throw my head back and my whole skull shudders as it cracks against his jaw. He yells and applies more strength to my limbs, I realise very suddenly that he was only going gentle on me before. He wasn’t even trying.

The news infuriates me so completely that I find the strength and the room to wriggle around. My cheek scrapes against the ground in the process and I elbow him again in the ribs. I'm facing him now. We're chest to chest, hip to hip. His long hair falls into my face and all I can see is him.

“Stop, all right? Just let me explain!” He’s still struggling with my limbs, fighting to pin me down.

I reel my arm back and crack my palm across his face. The blow shocks him, his whole face going slack as the force of the blow shudders all the way down to my bones. I hit him so hard even my shoulder aches.

This seems to be the final straw, because he catches my wrist as I try to swing again. He slams my arm to the ground above my head and pins it there, and no matter how hard I yank he will not move.

“Hit me again, and I’m going to get angry.” He warns, and his eyes are made of storms and steel and for a moment I really am afraid of him.

His anger rockets me into a realm of fury that singes my heart black. Words come back to me all at once.

“Get off me!” I holler.

The words hurt on their way out my throat. They’re a rasp of pain, a wisp of noise that’s pathetic even to my own ears. My tongue is familiar only to the task of screaming. Everything else is too much effort. But the words escape me, and he’s shocked and I’m shocked too.

“I’ll let you up, all right?” He’s breathing deeply, but I’m panting hard for breath. He’s so heavy. “Just don’t run again. You can’t. It’s suicide. Let me explain, please…” He shakes his head and his whole body droops. He gets a little heavier and my lungs squeeze. He’s exhausted, though I don’t know why he would be. “Just give me a couple of minutes.”

“Get off me.” I spit it at him again.

He sighs. He’s acting like I’m the annoying one. Like I’m being difficult. I’m so annoyed that my knee jerks upwards and hits him right between the legs. The breath leaves him and his eyes go wide, and the noise that escapes is little more than a wheeze.

I scramble out from under him. Slapping at his hands as I crawl out from the prison of his body and across the ground, knocking him back with my feet.

“Shit-!” He’s up on his knees and clutching at the damaged area. “Are you actually fucking serious?”

My shoulders slam into a tree trunk and I stop. Panting, yanking myself up into a sitting position. My whole body aching and my head pounding and my lungs struggling for even a whisper of cool air.

“I swear to fucking-” He’s scowling and moving close, reaching again.

“Stop!” I blurt, desperate. “Just stop.” It’s only a mutter this time.

He frowns. I’m done. He can see it. The defeat is easy to distinguish beneath the sweat.

“Don’t do that again.” I hiss viciously.

He settles just passed the border that my outstretched legs create. He doesn’t reach again. After a moment, he nods.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” He shrugs, like our tussle was no big deal. “You ready to listen, or what?”

My snarl must say more than words can, because he rolls his eyes and crosses his long legs, settling down.

“You were captured by Hydra. All those labs, the scientists, all that stuff? It was Hydra. They’re a terrorist organisation who want to own the whole world. I got you out.”

His words are not enough to explain. The sentences are so short for the immensity of the knowledge that they convey. The confusion, the utter disbelief, settles immediately onto my face.

“I don’t work for them, not willingly. They captured me too. They’ve experimented on both of us. They gave me this arm.” He wiggles the metal fingers for emphasis.

I have a feeling he’s trying to keep it simple for my sake. He’s not giving me everything, because I probably look fragile enough as it is. He’s saving the painful stuff for when I’m stronger.

I almost appreciate him for it.

“We’re safe. We’re far away from them. But they’ll be looking for us, because we’re both important to them. But if we can stay together and stay hidden, we’ve got a chance and we’ve got time.”

His wide eyes are begging me to understand. To stop fighting and to trust him. But… Only an idiot would trust a man who helped keep her captive.

“You were on their side.” I accuse, and my voice is full of venom.

His mouth tightens. His fingers brush my ankle, like its natural, like he deserves to touch me, like we’re familiar. I yank my legs up and away from him, pulling them into my chest. My eyes are furious and the harsh line of my mouth warns him off doing it again.

“I was being controlled.” He says it slowly, looking away from me and off into the woods. “They ordered me to do it. When they give me an order it’s physically impossible to disobey without it feeling like torture. It takes weeks of concentration to unpick the programming. Then when I manage it they wipe my memory and I have to start all over again.”

I purse my lips. This all seems very far-fetched. Very futuristic. Mind control? Genetic engineering? But then… The sight of his metal arm is hard evidence enough. The lightning from my hands, the snow storm, the wildfire… They’ve altered me too.

“This all sounds… Crazy.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I get that. But the truth is, darling… You’ve got nowhere to go. You’ve got no one else. I don’t know where you come from and I don’t know where you belong. They wiped you too. The effects will wear off in time, but until then? We’re on our own.”

_This is bullshit,_  the voice snaps,  _let’s just get the hell out of here._

And go where, exactly? He’s right. I’ve got no memory of a home or a country or even a name. I’ve got nowhere to go and no means of going there anyway. But this guy… He got me out.

_How do you know you’re out?_  The voice hollers, enraged.  _It could all be another experiment!_

But I know it’s not. I know it isn’t. Because… Fuck, he put socks on my feet. The people who had me before would never have bothered to do that.

_You’re… You’re basing your survival on the fact that he gave you socks?_ The voice is dumbfounded.

I’m basing it on the knowledge that he’s capable of kindness! They weren’t! He is! There has to be a difference.

_You’re a goddamn idiot,_  the voice snarls, and then goes pointedly silent. It’s furious with me. If I die, I’m sure it’ll throw a ‘told you so!’ my way right at the very end.

My shadow reaches for me with both hands, but he doesn’t grab or extend them into the space I’ve carved out for myself against the tree base. I squint at him, trying to decide if it’s better to take his hands or try another break for it.

But… I’m so tired. I’m tired and aching and there are parts of my body which echo with agony. He’s fast and he’s strong and he’s got a stupid metal arm. I’m no match for him, not in this condition.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He says firmly, inching his hands forward again. “I promise.”

The earnestness in his voice is enough to convince me that the promise is genuine. With a surrendering sigh, I give over my hands. The smile that blooms on his face is as sweet as a flower petal, and just as fragile. He’s careful with my bruised and scraped hands, enveloping them gently and tugging on them only with a hint of pressure. Funnily enough, the metal hand is more careful than the one made of skin and bones, and the surface is smoother too.

He pulls me up and to my feet, and catches my elbows when my legs wobble.

“You pushed yourself too hard, darling.”

“I was chasing freedom.” I tell him in a murmur, frowning down at my weak legs.

He sighs, and his breath fans across my forehead, shifting my hair. He lets go of my arms and instead bends to swipe my legs out from under me. He hoists me into his arms like I’m made of nothing more than bone and sorrow. I can’t even find the energy to protest. “Yeah, guess I would chase that pretty hard too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying!! Hope you're also not suffering as much as I am after Infinity War!! Much love!!


	4. The Oblivion.

I don’t emerge from the room for three days.

I wake more than once. Every time I do, it takes longer than it should for me to realise I'm not strapped down, not in those labs. That punishment won't come if I move. Sometimes the room is bright and stuffy, sometimes it is gloomy, or even pitch black and chilly. Every time, I'm disorientated for a while, before I brush my hands over the thick mattress. Or I shift my legs beneath the heavy duvet, and in a rush I remember I'm no longer a captive.

Well, technically, I still am. But I guess it’s not as bad as it could be.

My shadow checks on me regularly, pausing outside the door every once in a while. I stumbled out of bed the first time I woke and locked the door, so he cannot venture inside, but I doubt he needs to. He only seems to hover for a few moments, and then his footsteps retreat. I suppose he needs only to hear me breathing.

He did leave a glass of water and a banana on my bedside table, but I ignore the banana and take only a few sips of the water. It grows stagnant, and I watch brown seep into the banana. It’s the only way I know for sure that time has passed.

When I do try to move, a pang of pain ripples through my stomach and spreads outwards. I curl in on myself, gasping, and squeeze my eyes shut against the feeling.

Every part of me hurts. Everything aches. Some areas worse than others. Some areas throb with such undiluted agony that it brings tears to my eyes. I do not try to move often, and the only way I can escape the pain is to sleep. When I do, the nightmares have me sweating and reeling with fear, but at least they don’t physically hurt.

I’m starting to smell, I know I am. My teeth are fuzzy and my hair is more often than not damp with sweat. My skin is oily. My shadow changed the bedding before putting me back to bed the day I ran from the cabin, and he changed my clothes too. Thank god, or I’d be even dirtier. Though I’ll certainly have to ward him off dressing me while I’m unconscious.

I don’t know what compels him into the room.

He might have heard me sobbing over my agony. Maybe I was screaming in my sleep, begging the scientists to stop electrocuting my bones. For whatever reason, my shadow forces his way into the room eventually.

I’m not sure how long has passed. I know I’ve woke seven times and fallen asleep six, and I’ve seen four lots of sun-drenched scenes outside the window.

The long groan of the wood is my only warning, and then the crack and snap of the lock makes me flinch hard into my pillow. There’s a rattle as some screws hit the floor. His footsteps stomp into the room.

He doesn’t say anything, but circles the bed and moves to the window. He shoves it up with a harsh thrust, making the frame shudder in response. He turns to look at me, and he’s angry.

“Smells like a corpse in here.”

I don’t reply.

The breeze is welcome, the chill that rushes in with it is not. I’ve been rolling from hot to cold from one moment to the next, and at this moment I’m freezing to my bones.

“Tryna starve yourself, love?” He asks, strolling towards me. He looks different. Some of his hair pulled back into a ponytail, just the top section so it’s off his face. I can reasonably call his stubble a beard now. He’s wearing a black vest which shows the full extent of his metal arm, which turns out is also a metal shoulder. I wonder if it extends further.

I don’t reply.

“Listen,” he sits on the edge of the bed, slotting himself into the space my body makes available. I’m curled on my side, legs pulled up and arms tucked against my stomach. He sits so that I’m curled around his back. “You wanna check out, that’s fine. Just tell me, so I can get a head start on digging your grave.”

My eyes flash to his, and when I see the small smirk, I scowl.

I swallow, wince, and try my best. “You have a terrible sense of humour.” The words are scratchy and weak, but at least there are words in me now.

He snorts, lays his metal hand on my exposed shoulder. Runs his thumb over my heated, swollen skin. The cold surface is a relief. “There are easier ways to die, you know.”

I’m not trying to kill myself. At least, I don’t think I am. I’m not sure what I want. Does some part of me want to lay here until I turn to dust and drift into oblivion? Yes. Am I so full of pain and misery that the thought of moving fills me with a sick sort of horror? Yes.

I suppose I don’t exactly want to die. But I… Don’t want to live, either. The prospect of living on, existing, seems so exhausting to me. I’m just…

“I’m so tired, Shadow.” I murmur, my eyes fixed on the window. I’ve counted the trees out there a hundred times. I’ve counted the leaves too. The different shades of colour. The lines in the bark of the trees. The number of branches. I’ve had time.

He doesn’t respond, and after a moment I look round. He’s staring at me and I can tell he’s disappointed. I don’t know what he expected from me, but I’m annoyed that he expected anything to begin with.

“After you fought so hard in the labs, I assumed you’d be trying harder.” He says it casually enough, even shrugs his wide shoulders.

“You know what?” I hiss, furious. “Fuck you.” I shove his hand from my shoulder and roll away to the other side of the bed. Even that movement makes my stomach roll with sickness.

“Fuck me?” He’s on his feet, stomping round the bed so he can scowl down at me. He puts his hands on his hips, mouth scrunched up in irritation. “You’re the one that would have been fucked if I hadn’t got you out of Hydra when I did.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” I snap, and it makes my throat throb, “I asked you to kill me, and you couldn’t even do that.”

His face goes slack with shock and his hands fall from his hips. He’s not scowling anymore, he’s looking hard at the floor. “I… Didn’t think you remembered that.”

“I do.” The pain is building. The more upset I get the harder it is to ignore, to choke it down until it’s a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. But it’s shaking loose the restraints I’ve enforced, and I want to weep as the agony floods my system again. “You’d have saved us both a lot of trouble if you had.”

“That’s what you want?” He demands, “You want me to kill you? You want to die?”

I wonder what he’ll do if I say yes. Will he muster the courage this time? Do I want it as much as I did in that moment, in the middle of that lightning storm?

No, I don’t want death. Not at the moment, anyway.

“I want it to stop hurting.” I tell him, and its half wheeze, half moan. I’ve been trying to sleep through the worst of it, but he’s keeping me from its release. If he disappears, comes back in a few hours, I can drift off now and evade the grasping fingers of this wretched state.

His head tilts to the side, his eyes narrowing as he inspects me closer. His gaze drifts to my clenched hands, my sweaty forehead, my hunched position. Curled inwards on myself like I’m bracing against the force of a gale. Something flickers in his eyes, a realisation, and he’s kneeling before the bed. His face on level with mine, his hands curling gently around my wrists.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere.”

He takes a breath, shakes his head, and stands. He reaches for the duvet and pulls it back, exposing me to the frigid air. I shudder against it, but my discomfort lasts only a moment. My shadow reaches for me, with skin and metal, and scoops me up out of the bed without any sign of strain.

The sway of his stride is steady. A comforting, careful movement as he carries me through the cabin and out into the living area.

He deposits me on one of the low couches, immediately tucking a blanket about my legs and up over my waist. He doesn’t speak, and I don’t ask any questions as he disappears again. I let my head settle against the back of the sofa, eyes squeezed closed against the onslaught. Being moved has only increased the pain. It’s coming from everywhere, from my head and my stomach and my arms and legs. It feels like every single one of my bones have been clamped in a vice, and it’s slowly winching tighter.

“Hey.” A hand on my shoulder, “Drink this.”

His hand lifts my head, and he presses something else to my lips. I swallow obediently, too preoccupied to consider that he might be poisoning me. He lets me guzzle, pausing every now and again. But insists that I drink until my empty stomach feels stretched and aching.

Once he’s satisfied, the glass is removed and the sofa dips at my side, and my body tips towards his as he takes a seat. I settle against his metal arm. Too tired to move. And suddenly I'm aware that the chill from its surface relieves at least an inch of the pain wherever it brushes.

I shift until I can lay my temple against his shoulder. I swallow my pride out of pure need for the relief the metal offers the pounding in my head. He doesn’t comment, just holds still as I let loose a tiny, weak groan of thanks.

“Eat this.”

He presses a small slither of something damp but firm into my palm, and I lift it blindly to my mouth to nibble at it. Apple. When I’ve consumed that slice, he hands me another.

We sit this way for a long while. Long enough for my flushed face to warm his arm, and long enough that the apple slices stop coming. When they’re gone and I’m shifting in discomfort again, he untangles his arm from beneath my body.

“Here.”

A small jostle, and then –  _holy shit_. Pure bliss as he slides his metal hand into my hair. Settling his palm at the base of my skull, fingers gentle as they massage my scalp. His hand is still cold, and it chases away the worst of the throbbing.

The moan that escapes me is embarrassing and not at all quiet. If I wasn’t already sweaty and overheated, I’d flush berry red. But he doesn’t offer a comment, his only reaction a short chuckle, before we settle again into silence.

He seems to know when his hand is again warm from my own heat – which makes me wonder, not for the first time, if he can feel despite the metal – because he struggles from beneath my hunched body.

My eyes flicker open to seek him out, and I find him on his feet but bending down. He reaches for me, and my breath hitches as he hauls me up and back into his arms. I think he might be putting me back to bed, and I brace for the suffocating silence, but he doesn’t aim for the corridor.

He aims for the door.

Even with the burden of my body and the bundle of my blanket in his arms, he gets the door open and we emerge into open forest.

Immediately, the air is a balm on my hot skin, relieving the weight of my greasy hair and cooling my oily flesh. I really do need a shower. But my shadow doesn’t seem bothered with the messy state of me. He settles me down on the top wooden step that leads down to the forest floor. He sits with me, his knees almost hitting his chest as he folds inwards. We’re squeezed for space, banisters on each side crowding us in close. He doesn’t seem to take offence when I nudge myself as far from him as possible, pressing into the wood slats on my right. Still, his thigh is touching mine, and when he takes a breath and his chest swells, his arm brushes my shoulder.

He’s just so big.

Did this organisation, this Hydra, give him all these muscles, or do they belong solely to him? I wonder if...

“Why are you smirking?” His flat blue eyes, almost grey in the fast fading light, are trained down on me. He’s frowning.

I look away, caught out. The question seems rude. But he keeps staring, and his stare makes my skin prickle, it’s so intense.

“Did…” I purse my lips, bite my tongue. He’s still staring. Expectant. I sigh. “Did Hydra have to make your metal arm so muscly because you were so big, or did you have to get big because they made your arm so muscly?”

For a moment, it seems even the clouds in the sky still with bated breath. Literally he just… Continues to stare. He blinks once. Twice. Three times.

My stomach quivers in fear. That was such a fucking stupid thing to say.

And then his whole face melts. And his mouth falls open and laughter spills out, like sunlight spilling over a black horizon. And my chest squeezes because it’s such a lovely sound and I can’t believe I’ve startled it out of him. He laughs loud and long, his head tipping back and his whole body rocking back to send his laughter upwards. And with it the clouds start to roll again, and they take my fear with them.

Finally, the laughter turns to chuckles and the chuckles turn to snorts. Eventually he slaps his knee and wipes tears from beneath his eyes, still grinning wide.

He gives my ribs a nudge, shaking his head. “That’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever damn heard.”

“I feel like it’s a fair question.” I defend myself, but I’m smiling too.

“I guess so.” He scoffs, still shaking his head in bewilderment. “But nah. They gave me this super serum, which made me fast and strong and all that bollocks. I swelled up and they made the arm accordingly.” He wiggles his metal fingers, the weak sunlight jumping from the surface and out into the forest. “They’ve had to update it twice though. Made it bigger, I mean. It’s because they were always training me.”

“So now you’ve got to stay huge, or else you’ll be all out of proportion.”

He chuckles, “I don’t know about  _huge_ , but yeah, I’m conscious of staying in proportion.”

“Is…” I take a breath, “Is that what they gave me? A super serum?”

The smile is gone immediately. He looks down as he clasps his hands together, forearms resting on his knees. “Not one like mine, no. It’s different. A kind of serum, yes, but it changed you differently than mine changed me.”

“I’m not fast and strong.” I clarify.

“Well,” He winces, “You could be, but they liked to keep you weak, hoping that it would stop you lashing out so often. I’ll get you strong again, but it’ll take time.”

I nod, mulling this over. He speaks while I do.

“They did a lot of crazy shit.” He says, and he speaks to the trees rather than me. I think he wants to fill the silence. “I was their first experiment, I guess, and they were limited by the technology of the time. They created what they needed; an attack dog they could send to do their dirty work. Because they had a lot of dirty work, they made me fast and strong, gave me advanced healing and stamina. Gave me the arm on top of it all. I was effective, but after a few years they got greedy and started pushing further.”

“And then they made me.” My voice is quiet.

“Exactly.” He sighs, gives me a guilty look. “They called me in after they’d started the experiment. The lot of you were causing so much trouble, kept lashing out, they needed someone to contain you-”

“Wait, wait,” My eyes are wide, “There were  _more?_  More than me?”

“Sure.” He says it with a shrug, like this should be obvious. “Given the mortality rate of their experiments, they wanted to maximise the results. There were twenty-four of you in the beginning.”

“Twenty-four?!” I demand. “Where are the others? Why did you only get me out?”

“There are no others, love.” He doesn’t look at me. His hands clench tight.

“I was the only survivor?” I’m stunned, baffled.

“The only one.” He nods, “All the others died a long time ago.”

“And... They all developed abilities?”

“One or two.” He shrugs, “Mostly they burned out. You’ve gotta be strong even to survive the first set of injections. That’s when most died. Systems overloaded, or they weren’t compatible with the serum. After that, it’s the torture that gets them. None of them could take it. Their hearts gave out or they stopped fighting. Some of them found ways to die.”

I’m blinking out at the forest, like the answers to my questions might appear between the trees. The news, all this information, is making my mind reel. My headache starts to throb again. Whatever he gave me to soothe my pain is not enough to stave off my shock and my absolute, soul-shuddering fear.

“And then? When there was only me left?” I demand, desperate for more despite myself.

“They kept torturing you.” He mutters. “The serum activates the abilities, but the torture makes them manifest. Or something like that, I didn’t know what the fuck the lab coats were saying half the time. I know that the other subjects developed one or two powers, but you just… Kept going. They called it elemental powers, but I dunno what that means to you, ‘cause it means jack to me.”

“And they wiped my memory, along with all this other stuff?”

“Yeah. They wiped me too, on the regular. It comes back after a while. You’ll get bits and pieces.”

“Does it all come back, or will I lose some things?”

He frowns into his lap. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” I demand, surely, it’s happened to him?

“I never get that far.” He tells me shortly, voice tight. “They’ve always wiped me before I can finish the process. I dunno how much you get back.”

My annoyance rushes away and in its place settles shame. Shame and, I guess, sympathy.

I don’t trust him yet. How can I? All I’ve got is his word. There’s still a small part of me that questions whether this whole thing is another form of torture. Another way to manipulate or hurt me. Maybe they want me to care about him, so it’ll hurt all the more when he turns on me, or hands me back over to Hydra.

But, his eyes are so full of sadness, and his face so full of pain, that I cannot help the twinge my heart gives as I look at him. No matter if he’s still their puppet, I can’t deny that this man has suffered, that he’s  _still_  suffering. And I don’t want to add to that.

“Do you have anything back yet?” I ask, gently.

“No. Just what Hydra put in.” He shrugs his big shoulders, but I can tell he’s bothered. “Do you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t even know my name.”

“Nor me.” He gives me a small smile, like this terrible thing we have in common is something to celebrate.

“What did they call you?”

He winces at the question, “Soldier. Or Asset.”

I turn the names over in my mind, they’re not very flattering. “Well, what do you want me to call you?”

“I don’t care.” He shrugs again. He curves his broad frame inwards, hunching his shoulders like he wants to appear smaller. The conversation is making him uneasy. He’s as skittish as wild deer.

“You must care.” I insist.

“I really don’t.”

“Everyone cares about having a name.”

“Have you always been so stubborn?” He demands, turning on me to scowl. The movement doesn’t frighten me, nor does his creased brows.

“I dunno,” I lift a shoulder, let it drop. “But it feels natural.”

He snorts and looks away, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “You called me something earlier, something- Shadow, wasn’t it?”

My cheeks warm. It seems silly now that he’s brought it up. “Yeah, I just, well. You were always lurking.” I explain in a stammer, embarrassed. “Always stood in the darkest corner of the room. And you were always there when I woke up. I started referring to you as my shadow.”

His jaw twitches, and his metal arm whirrs quietly as he flexes his hands. He doesn’t seem too pleased with this news, but he says anyway; “Shadow is fine.”

We drift into silence again, both of us retreating into our own minds, our own worlds. He’s given me so much to think about, so much new information, but I know there’s more. I know he’s holding back, wondering if I’ll clock out again like I’ve done the past couple of days.

But I don’t want that to happen again, I don’t want to drift into oblivion. I want to know more, I want to know what happened to me, and I want to know if the people who did this can be stopped.

But my Shadow doesn’t seem to want to talk anymore. The silence has turned stony, a little cold, and I know he’s in a bad mood now. I don’t know what part of the conversation has annoyed him, but I don’t care either. I don’t want to care about him or his moods.

I do wonder though, briefly, if the world he retreats into in his silence is as horrifying as mine. Because when I sink into myself, when I retreat into my own world… Everything is drenched in fire and blood. Everything is broken and shattered and left in tattered pieces. There is nothing left of myself or who I am.

And they did that to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've not updated in a little while, but university has been crazy and I've not had the time. But since that's over, I'll hopefully be updating more regularly, so be sure to check back for new chapters! Hope everyone is enjoying reading as much as I enjoy writing this!! Xo


	5. The Cleansing.

The following days are quiet.

My Shadow carries me to bed after the air grows too cold to sit comfortably on the porch. I watch from the rocking chair near the unlit fire as he changes the sheets on my bed. His thorough process reminds me that there's something else I have to speak to him about.

"Don't strip me while I'm unconscious again." My voice is a low warning. We haven't spoken at all since he fell into a foul mood.

“I’m a Soviet trained assassin, sweetheart. I’ve navigated more complicated things than women’s clothing without paying attention.” He tells me, rolling his eyes.

“Strip me again and I’ll light you up hard enough to singe your eyebrows off.” I growl right back.

He chuckles, nods, and bundles me into the newly made bed.

The next morning, he knocked on my door – my  _broken_  door, thanks to him – and though I groaned for him to go away, he collected me from the bed regardless of my protests.

It had been like that the day after, too. And the day after.

He lets me sleep as long as I want, as long as I did it on the couch and not in bed. He fed me a steady diet of water, painkillers, and small portions of soft foods. He didn't give a shit if I spent the whole day dozing, just as long as I wasn't moaning in pain or whining at him for being a dick. 

Of course, I wasn't always happy to comply with his strict routine.

I complained when he woke me up. Complained when he dragged me out of bed and when he dumped me on the couch. Complained too every time he forced me to eat until my stomach ached. Worse; the more difficult I got, the more of an asshole he became.

When I refused, he stood scowling at me until I completed my task. If I swore at him, he swore back. When I finally lobbed the food across the room, he leaned in close and threatened violence for being a prick. I’m not sure I could call it tough love, but it was definitely tough.

Still, having a routine makes me feel less like I'm living in a black hole. It grounds me in the real world. The change in environment is a constant reminder that I am free of Hydra. As is my Shadow's constant presence, though he seems to disappear often to attend his own business.

Though, the routine does not blot out everything. The pain slips through, and though the drugs he gives me are strong, they're no match for the agony of my injuries.

“Let me see.” He says on the second morning, reaching for the long sleeve at my wrist.

I flinch away, jerking my arms back and into my stomach. I know I’m littered with wounds, but I’m too scared to look. The reason I’m hurting is no doubt because they’re exposed and untreated, but I cannot inspect my body yet. I’m far too scared, too much of a coward.

“They’ll get infected-” He warns, stubborn hands inching again for my sleeves.

I snatch my hands away and burrow myself into the back of the couch. “Don’t touch me.”

His mouth tightens, his stormy eyes narrowing. A heavy intake of breath, and he reaches again.

The metal of his fingertips brushes my wrist, too harsh, and a flash of pain flies through the tender flesh. The pain manifests itself in a sharp sting, and feels less like a wound and more like a very bad sunburn. The sting sets my teeth on edge, and I hiss. My anger at his insistence, at his stubbornness, flares fast, and shows itself as a plume of fire.

It runs like crimson ribbon across my hands, my wrists, down my forearms. It singes my shirt black but does nothing at all to my flesh. Embers fly up, tiny oranges flames dancing between my spread fingers. It caresses my palms with a comforting, barely there warmth.

The flames chase his metal fingers, and they either shock him or hurt him, because he jerks away with a hiss.

We stare at each other. The fire fizzles to nothing. He flexes his metal hand, his chiselled jaw working in frustration. My arms cross over my chest, my eyes narrowed hatefully.

“Fuck it then.” He snaps, and stands to stomp off.

He tends to do that a lot.

**

On the third day, I don’t wait for my Shadow to collect me from bed.

Instead, I struggle out of bed myself. I don't seem to have much trouble walking, but I do get tired quick.

I open the window to let air into my stale room, and then I shuffle off to the bathroom.

My stench is starting to bother me. My hair is lank, heavy with oil, and my skin is worse. Shadow hasn’t commented, and it must be through sheer force of will that he carries me around on a regular basis. My need to feel clean has finally outweighed my fear of seeing my own body naked.

I creep from my room and into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind me. I don't doubt he can hear me scuttling about, but I like to imagine I'm being quiet.

The bathroom is pretty fancy for a cabin. There’s a ceramic tub and basin, and a walk-in shower embedded in one wall, complete with a glass panel. Everything is wood panelled, and there’s a lot of light let in from the two windows opposite the door.

I turn to the bath, judging how deep it is and knowing that the water would submerge my entire body.

The thought fills me with immediate, choking panic. My heart gives a squeeze at the image, and with that one comes more. Memories, real, vivid, washes in to blind me.

Being dunked in icy tanks. Held under by heavy hands until my vision turns black. Looking down at my flesh to see it turn inky blue. Vomiting the water out so violently it tears my throat and pours out of my nose.

My breath comes in gasps, and I rush to the window and shove it upwards. The cool air helps to steady my fluttering heart, but it is a while before I can turn back to face the bathroom.

Perhaps I’ll try a shower instead.

The idea that they still have such power and control over me makes my insides burn with shame; there's an inkling again... A wrongness. This isn't who I am. I hope that I wouldn't have allowed this before. I hope I was strong enough that I wouldn't let anyone control me, when I was a person that is.

I'm less a person now and more a wreckage. A jumbled mismatch of broken pieces, parading around as a person.

The thought makes my insides curl. I launch myself into the process of getting myself clean without thinking too much about it all.

Of course, to get clean I must remove my clothes. I do it slow, sending my gaze anywhere but down towards my aching body. But I must face it eventually. It’s me, after all, and I cannot let them take me away from myself any longer.

Before I can think better of it, I'm stood naked in front of the full length mirror on the back of the door. And then I'm hyperventilating at top speeds.

The damage... Destroys any last piece of control I have left.

My skin is a splash of furious colour set upon a pale, sickly canvas. Swathes of angry red, violent purple and sombre black decorate almost every inch of me. Some areas are more severe than others. The bicep of my left arm is the worst, the bruising so absolute its as if I've wrapped a length of cloth around my flesh.

Worse are the welts, blisters and sores encircling my wrists and my ankles. They must have been from the restraints, because my neck has rubbed raw too, but not as bad.

Scrapes and small cuts litter at random; they've not handled me gently in the slightest.

Then there are the scars. All of them vivid plum and shiny with new skin. Some are brighter in colour than others. Some are barely healed at all, still scabbing over. All of them inflicted with the intent to cause as much pain as humanely possible.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

I'm confused at the malice in the voice, before I realise the racket I'm making. A glance at my face - my face? Is it? Is that what I look like? - reveals that I am sobbing. Throat and nose and eyes thick with tears and suffering and the knowledge of how monstrous I am.

They have turned me into... Into something... Something else.

I will never escape what they did to me. I will never,  _ever_ be able to forget how they've changed me.

My knees buckle. I hit the floor hard but don't notice the impact. There is no room for pain around the hollow feeling spreading out from my heart and taking root in my lungs.

A snap and a crash and I flinch as the door clatters open, smacking against the wall with enough force to dent the wood.

"Fucking hell." Shadow gasps from a long way off.

A towel encircles my back and he brings it around to fold over my front. I'm half hidden behind my arms and hair and folded legs anyway. I don't care about him seeing me. How can I now? There's nothing to see anymore. Everything marred by this ugliness, this reminder of pain and weakness.

He's trying to stand me up, trying to hush me, telling me it's all okay and things are fine and I'm safe now.

But he's trying to lead me out of the bathroom and I'm shaking my head.

"You should get dressed, darling." He says it like he's speaking to a broken doll, cracked and crumbling and in need of gentleness.

"I need to shower." I manage to choke out.

He's quiet for a moment before he changes direction and leads me to the shower. The rush of water is a welcome sound, as is the heat that blooms out of the open door. What isn't welcome is the dropping sensation when he removes his support from my body.

He catches me with a grunt of surprise. Wedging his shoulder under my arm to prop me up. But my legs are not yet ready to hold me.

"I'll manage." I tell him around my rasping my breaths. "Just put me on the floor."

"I'm not putting you on the floor." He snorts, and when I flick my eyes over I find him tugging his shirt up his torso.

I splutter and try to struggle away. I only serve to smack my knee against the glass door and slam my shoulder against the wooden wall.

Cursing, I stumble back into his embrace.

"Come here." He sighs, and we're in the shower and he's shutting the door and he's tossing my towel out onto the floor of the bathroom.

He's got his arms around my waist and ribs and his hands pressed to my back. I'm against his chest and it's very solid and very warm and so is the spray of the water as he twists so that I'm under it.

Then I'm groaning, because it's been so damn long since I've been even a little bit warm. The heat and the strength of the jet stings but it's delicious. I can't help the sounds I make as the scorching stream digs straight into my battered muscles.

He holds me for a long time under the water, rocking steady from side to side. His cheek is against my jaw and his nose is on my shoulder and I can feel his lips brush against my collarbone. I can feel his thighs against mine and his stomach against mine and his chest too. My arms moved - though I'm not sure when - to encircle his waist, my palms against his back.

He is... Very comfortable.

I don’t want to find him comfortable. He’s stubborn and forceful and miserable, and his attitude needs a lot of work, but... I cannot fault the solidness of his chest nor the strength of his arms around my back.

I cannot fault his patience as I sob in his arms. Nor the steadiness of his support as he rocks me, hushes me, and strokes his hands down my back.

We’ve irritated each other the last couple of days. I’ve been undeniably ungrateful for saving me from the labs. He's been harsh and hard for the most part. But no matter these things, he is here to keep me together as I break apart.

Slowly, my sobs turn to gasps and my gasps even out into steady breath. He gives me time after that to calm, to steady myself, to soak under the water.

“You okay?” He murmurs into my shoulder.

I’m not okay, so I don’t bother replying. He seems to understand this, because he nods.

“I’ll wash your hair.” He says instead.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

So he disentangles himself and turns me around and after a moment, begins to work shampoo into my scalp. Then,of course, there’s no point feeling weird, because the sensation is too glorious to question. The metal hand is thorough and the flesh hand gentle, but the feel of them combined means I’ve got to stifle my appreciative groans.

Before long he spins me back round, backing me up until I’m under the spray. I tip my head so the water runs through my hair, washing away the bubbles.

This also means that I’m looking up at him. He is… quite the sight.

I’d already noticed he was handsome, it’s something very hard  _not_  to notice, in fact.

But now he’s soaking wet. He’s swept his hair back over his head, messy but keeping off his face. His skin is slick with water. His cheeks flushed ruby red with the heat. He’s, stars above, he’s shirtless. He's managed to keep a pair of grey cotton shorts on, quickly becoming soaked by the spray.

He’s remarkably built. Rippling with muscle. Every inch of him toned, smooth, and… Entirely perfect. Though, he too is marred by scars. The ones on his torso are both silver with age and shiny pink with newness. There are small round ones and long thin ones and burns and scrapes and every other kind of wound I can think of.

And… Worst of all, is the damage I have done to his glorious body.

The wound is an angry red. There's a small spot of deep purple where the lightning hit first and then spread outwards. The forked branches are crimson and vivid.

They stretch the whole expanse of his chest and even inch down onto his stomach. The whole thing is a tangle of violet and indigo bruises, and over the top sits the mark of the lightning.

I reach for it without thinking, mostly because I'm horrified at the pain I must have caused him.

He goes still as stone as my fingers brush over the splashes of colour. His flesh is warm, hot even. I'm as gentle as I can be as I track the path of the brutal marks I've left on his skin. They're raised and bumpy, like a new scar.

I’ve inched closer and my hand is against his bare chest. His breathing hitches and so does mine. I’m bare to his gaze, my breasts exposed, my whole body exposed, but he doesn’t look anywhere but my face.

“Does it hurt?” I murmur, he hears me over the stream of the water.

“No.”

I was blinded by fury that day, blinded by agony too. I was so desperate to be free of my pain, I didn’t consider how much of it I was causing him.

His hand encircles my wrist, his long fingers wrapping around the fragile bone. Flesh against flesh, our skin tones are almost the same. He's a little more tan, though not by much. My guess is that we both haven't felt the sun for a long time. His knuckles are scarred and my wrist sports vivid, tender welts.

We are just two broken people, and the evidence of that is plain to see. With his violent hands and my fragile bones, with our brutalised skin joined for a moment, we are a map of pain and misery. A tapestry of torture and suffering.

He looks at me and I look at him.

"I'm sorry." I hope I'm earnest enough that he thinks I mean it.

His fingers squeeze on my wrist, but he's still gentle. He avoids the welts, the sores left behind by my struggle.

"I forgive you." He says, and I think he means it. He even offers a small smile. "I'm sorry too."

"For what?" I brush some of my hair off my neck, sweeping the heavy wet curtain back behind my shoulder. His eyes flick down to catch the movement, his gaze lingering on my wet throat, my collarbones. I fight the urge to swallow.

"For being such a bastard." He huffs. "I should be kinder, but I don't always know how. I get erratic and... Irritated when the effects of the memory wipe start to ware off. Not having orders makes me panicky."

My eyebrows inch upwards. He's being very honest. I suppose I could have been kinder to him too, I could have made the whole process easier.

"I've not been easy." I admit grudgingly, rolling my eyes. He smirks. "I guess we could both try to be better."

He nods, "We're going to be living together for a while. Might as well try."

We smile at each other, and it's a fragile sort of truce that blooms between us. A timid promise to do better, be better, to one another. Because if I'm being honest with myself, he's the only person I've got. The only one in the world that helped me when I needed it most.

And if we're being really honest, I'm the only person he's got too.

Nobody wants to be alone. Especially when you're sinking into a black abyss of agonising memories, and struggling against the knowledge that you've got fucking...  _Super powers_.

He gives my hand one last squeeze, and then he nudges it down and spins me around again so my back is facing him. His fingers sink into my hair again, and I notice that the conditioner is orange scented. It's nice.

"I'm going to have to bandage you up." He informs me quietly. "You better start some antibiotics too, because some of these wounds are serious."

"All right." He knows more than I do.

"I might even have to stitch some of the ones on your back. It'll help them heal quicker."

I nod. Thankfully, I already took some painkillers. There's nothing but the pressure of his hands as he prods and pokes at the wounds on my back. There's no pain.

"Do you know what they're from?" I ask. I'm not sure I really want to know.

"You don't remember yet?"

"I remember them electrocuting me. It's not that, is it?"

"No." He's quiet for so long I'm not sure he knows either. Then, with a quake in his voice; "They whipped you."

The news makes my insides boil. But then again, it's not all together surprising.

"Could have been worse, I suppose." I shrug. Because that wasn't the worst of it. That last time... With the lightning, when I attacked him. That was the worst. That was absolutely the most agonising thing I'd ever felt in my whole life.

"That's optimistic of you."

"Yeah, I'm a real joyful soul."

He snorts. Tugs on my shoulder so I'll spin round. I move to tilt my head back under the spray, but he stops me.

"You might want to let that soak. Your hair is..." He grimaces.

"It's not like I've been able to get to a salon lately." I snap. He holds his hands up, palms raised in surrender.

"I'll um," He glances around, palming back his own wet hair. Scrubs a hand over his jaw, over the back of his neck. "I'll leave you to it."

The thought of standing in the small box alone, in pressing silence, makes my insides drop. My hands curl into fists, squeezing together with anxiety. But it's stupid, because he doesn't want to stand in the shower with a naked woman that he doesn't know.

He catches the breath I suck in, the flex of my jaw. He raises his eyebrows.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"No."

"I can if you want me to."

"I don't want you to." I turn and angle my chest under the spray, so I don't have to look at him and his wet skin and his broad chest and toned arms.

"I'll stay." It sounds like he's trying not to laugh.

"You don't have to." I sigh, frustrated.

"I want to."

"You  _want_ to stay in the shower with me?" I glance over my shoulder at him, eyebrows high.

He's crossed his arms over his chest and tipped back against the opposite wall. Close but not enough that we'd brush together. His ankles are crossed and he looks very casual. His eyes narrow when I grin at him.

"I want to stay in the shower because  _you_ want me to stay in the shower." He elaborates carefully, like I'm an idiot.

"Just, shut up." I shake my head and he chuckles. "Is there body wash?"

He hands it to me, along with one of those scrunchy things.

It's a difficult job, because there's so many open wounds and small scrapes. All of them sting when bubbles wash over and into them. But it's necessary, because I need to feel like I'm clean. He offers to do my back, and I let him.

"Where do you get all this stuff, anyway?" I ask through gritted teeth. My hands are braced against the wood wall. Every brush against my back sends pain to my spine. He's careful.

"Local town."

"Which is... Where?"

"Yeah, right." He scoffs. "I'm not telling you anything."

"What country are we in?" Silence. "Continent?" Silence. "Hemisphere?"

"The northern one." A snort, "Happy now?"

"It's not like I've got anywhere to run."

"It's not like that stopped you last time." A resentful sniff. "Besides if we're ever caught, I want you to be telling the truth when you say you've got no information to torture out."

His answer actually, annoyingly, makes sense. Not only that it's even a little... Thoughtful. A bit sweet of him, to think of protecting me from a future that might not happen. Well, that  _hopefully_ won't happen.

"Oh." Is all I have to offer.

He finishes my back and gives permission for me to wash the conditioner out of my hair. I face him while I do this, my head tilted back under the running water.

He's looking at me. It's not a leering gaze, just an assessing one. Like the way a doctor looks at a patient, or the way a soldier looks at a battle strategy. He's inspecting the wounds and judging the best way to treat them, the best way to heal them. His eyes are narrowed and his lips pursed. Like he's thinking hard. It doesn't seem like he's appraising me at all.

Even though I'm glad he's not staring at my naked body, I'm also... A little wounded.

It's silly. Ridiculous even. But it's just that, he's a  _man_. A very handsome man. But he's not looking at me, doesn't seem tempted, doesn't even seem moved by the sight of me. I suppose it confirms that Hydra has twisted my body into something else. Something monstrous. It confirms everything I assumed when I stood before the mirror and found something hideous looking back.

It's not his fault he doesn't find me attractive. And I shouldn't let his disinterest mean anything. It  _doesn't_ mean anything. My worth shouldn't be defined by whether he finds me pretty.

Still, tears rise again. Horrified, I struggle to blink them away, but this only sends them down my cheeks.

My Shadow's eyes flash up to my face, and I hope that he thinks they're just water. But my face has been angled from the shower for a while and my skin there is dry.

His brows furrow as I swipe at my cheeks, trying to cough away the tears that are going to keep coming. His head tilts to one side, blinking with confusion.

"You okay?" He's surprised. He can tell I'm upset again.

"It's nothing." I'm scrunching up my hair, wringing it of water. Preparing to get out of the shower. Busying myself with not looking at him, but my throat is tight and my hands are shaky.

"Hey." His fingers grasp my forearm to stop my erratic movements. "The wounds are going to heal."

"They'll never go away though." My voice is a snap again. I don't mean to be nasty, I'm just frustrated.

"That's what you're bothered about?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I sniff, swiping at my eyes and my nose, fighting against the hysterical emotion rising in my chest.

"Are you bothered that you'll never be able to forget, or is it because you think your body is ruined?" His voice is gentle.

I realise, very quickly, that he must have had these exact thoughts a thousand times. Because he's covered in scars like me. He's been brutalised, like I have. Fuck, they even gave him a metal arm, a constant reminder of who changed him and how drastically they did it.

"Both, I guess." I shrug, still unable to look at his face.

His hands grasp my shoulders and he twists me until I'm facing him dead on. His hands slide down my biceps, thumbs brushing against my skin.

"They'll heal, and then they'll fade, and eventually they'll be another part of who you are." His voice is quiet but firm, ferocious in his insistence. His tone is harsh, but I think it's because he's trying to make me believe him. "They do not mark you as a victim, they mark you as a survivor."

I look up, and I'm crying, and I'm breathing fast, but he doesn't stop speaking. He's looking at me hard, and he's furious, with me for thinking differently and with Hydra for marking me.

"These scars mean you've survived. They mean you're alive. They're not hideous. They are  _you_ , now, and I think you're beautiful."

My throat bobs as I swallow hard. "You do?"

"You shouldn't care what I think." He scoffs, like he means nothing. Like his opinion of me means nothing. "But yeah, I do."

I smile, a little pleased. He grins, tweaks my nose, and reaches behind me to switch off the shower.

"Come on, love." He retrieves towels, and wraps me up first before taking care of himself. "Lets get you fixed."

I wonder if he can help with my wounds that can't be seen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is enjoying this so far! However, I just wanted a little bit of feedback about an issue I saw online recently! I listed this as a reader/Bucky fic, as the female character in it doesn't have a name until much later, but there is mild characterisation and eventually she will have a name. So really, it's a OC/Bucky fic, but can be read as either if you've got the energy to switch out the characterisation for yourself as you read. 
> 
> The issue I read about was the lack of diversity in reader fics, and how a lot of them lean in favour of white female characters. As I'm pale as the moon itself, I find myself guilty of this, because I'm always worried about getting characterisation of WOC wrong. Please, if you find any issue with this in my writing, let me know and I'll adjust. If you are a WOC and feel there's a lack of fics for you and your favourite characters, feel free to also request that from me and I would absolutely do my best if needed. 
> 
> It just really bothered me, and as a fair few people are currently reading this, I thought I would offer! If not, that's fine too. 
> 
> Happy reading!! Xo


	6. The Discussion.

"How're you feeling?" 

"Do you actually care?" My voice is a low growl. 

"Cheerful, I see." His reply is a grunt, and I don't have to look at him to know he's rolling his eyes. "How about some tea and toast?" 

I cross my arms over my chest and scowl at the opposite wall. He takes it as confirmation enough and disappears into the kitchen. 

A week has crawled by, full of the same routine. I'm eating more and sleeping less, and the grogginess has started to pass. My wounds are healing well under my Shadow's watchful eye, and for the last three days we've been weaning my system off the painkillers. He doesn't want me becoming dependant on them, but it doesn't mean I'm all together happy about it. 

He brings me the buttered toast and the sweetened tea. Slowly, we've been figuring out my tastes. I like my tea with two sugars, and I don't like the toast too burned. Even these small facts make me feel like I know myself a little better. 

Shadow sits on the couch opposite and sips at his own cup. He likes his tea strong, with only half a sugar. 

We've been better to each other. Not exactly friendly but more... Well. We don't speak that much. We tend to keep out of each others way. He patches me up and I thank him. He makes me food and I thank him. 

Otherwise, we circle around each other. The both of us are sorting through things in our minds. We're both distracted by scattered memories and remembered torture. Neither of us are willing to talk to one another, and really, that's probably exactly what we both need. 

I couldn't possibly admit that to him though. 

"Showering today?" He asks. 

"Yeah." 

He nods and leaves me to go alone. I strip myself, flick on the shower, and take a breath before stepping into the singeing heat. Only when the glass door snicks closed does Shadow knock on the bathroom door. I call him in. 

This is the only time the man manages to talk. 

He sits on the toilet lid and speaks quietly, steadily, as I complete the task of showering as quickly as I can while still being thorough. 

He hasn't showered with me again, but while I told him I could handle the process by myself after that first day, I still didn't want to be in the room alone. He didn't comment, didn't complain, and instead does not let me forget that he's right there, right outside, that I'm not alone. 

I don't ever reply, just letting him talk. He chatters about what we might have for dinner, about the weather and the forest. He tells me random things, snippets of stories and facts and knowledge that he deems interesting enough to say out loud. 

He talks a lot about animals. Talks too about weapons and vehicles and foreign countries. About cities and deserts and forests. I get the feeling that he has been to all of these places, has experienced them firsthand. I wonder which of his scars belong to which place. 

When I'm done, he hands me a towel without looking. When I'm wrapped in it tightly, he turns to give me a glance. He smiles, his bottomless blue eyes, bloodshot with tiredness but pretty just the same, are gentle. 

"Still beautiful." His voice is quiet, a little rough. Embarrassed, but it seems like he needs me to know. 

"Thank you." I look down, embarrassed too, but grateful for the compliment. 

He leaves me be to get ready. I've got no clothes of my own, so I'm sharing Shadow's. His are obviously huge, and it's not like he owns a bra or women's underwear. His shirts tend to reveal my nipples all too often, so I commandeer his jumpers. His trousers literally fall off me, so I wear his shorts instead. Even those I have to tie with string. 

We don't have a hairbrush either, which sucks for the both of us. I comb my fingers through my hair and braid it back wet. Luckily, he's got hairbands. Those he deems essentials. 

More food is waiting for me when I emerge from my room. Shadow nudges a bowl of fruit across the island and into my hands, and a glass of water too. Everything is healthy. My body doesn't feel quite as starved anymore, and I feel the strength coming back to me every day. 

"I'm gonna go for a walk." I tell Shadow once I've worked the food down slowly. His eyebrows go up. He doesn't really need words, if I'm honest. His face is enough to tell me exactly what he means to say. This expression tells me he's wondering who the fuck I think I am.

"Oh?" 

"Yeah." 

He eyes me, eyes the door, purses his lips. 

"I'm going." I say before he can announce I'm allowed to leave, like a mother allowing a child out to play. He might be strong and fast and all that other bullshit, but I won't have him control me. I won't have anyone control me ever again. 

His stormy eyes tighten, and he looks like he's about to argue, but I'm already on my feet. 

"You know I'll catch you if you run." 

"Do the same rules apply if I try a speed-walk?" 

He mutters something that involves the word 'insufferable', and beats me to the door so he can nudge it open. 

"Surprised you haven't started locking it." I scowl at him on the way passed. 

"Like I wouldn't hear you stomping towards it like a baby elephant." He bites right back. 

I huff, but he's got a good point, so I let him have that one. 

The chill air is a relief, but I'm still glad his jumpers are so big and thick. He was obviously expecting the cold, so I guess he's not a total moron. The seasons are definitely turning, and the colourful trees are looking more and more bare every day. They've kept the colour as they've been discarded though, and the ground is now a patchwork of vivid orange, deep red and sickly yellow. Occasionally, there's a tiny speck of green, a remnant of the summer just passed. 

I wonder if we'll be here for winter. How will we deal with the weather? Will the cabin cope with the cold? We must not be too far from civilisation, because there's running water. That also means we won't run out of food. Shadow seems to have some money at his disposal, because food never seems to run out, and he eats like a bear stocking up for hibernation. 

I pick a direction and set off. I don't worry about getting lost, because Shadow is doing what he does best. He's a few meters away, close enough to hold a conversation if I raised my voice, but not so close that I can see him lurking out of the corner of my eye. He gives me space, and doesn't try to act like a companion. 

The fresh air makes my lungs feel full and helps shake off the drowsy state I seem to get stuck in so often. 

Of course, the peace of the forest and the energy that rushes in makes my senses light up, allows my body to stretch, and clears my foggy brain. When that has happened, my thoughts turn immediately to the predicament I find myself in. I try to shove all of that out, a lot of the time. 

My feet drift closer to Shadow without meaning to. He doesn't alter his own course, so we end up walking parallel to one another, a couple of feet away. He's keeping his pace leisurely. He doesn't speak when I draw level with him. 

We don't look at each other, but I feel like I'm ready to ask. 

"Tell me about Hydra." 

He startles at the words, at my voice, clear and calm and stronger than I've heard it in a while. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask if I'm sure, he just glances sidelong to judge my expression, nods at what he notices, and then starts to speak. 

"They're everywhere." And this is exactly what I feared, almost what I expected. "My knowledge of the history is hazy at best, but I know it started as the scientific branch of the Nazi party before and during World War II. It could have existed beforehand, probably did, and if that's the case I know nothing about it. After the war, Hydra went underground. Since then, it's grown. It's infiltrated governments, intelligence agencies, military's. It has bases all over the globe. The resources it has are fucking scary." 

"What does it stand for though? What does it want to achieve?" 

"World domination, love." He says it softly, probably because I should have figured that out already. "They want to own everything, control everything. They want freedom extinct, and they think that if the world gets chaotic enough, if there's enough fear in the air, the world will hand over it's freedom willingly." 

"And how did they plan on doing this?" I'm listening carefully, drinking it all in as we walk. 

"They've been doing it. For decades. They kill politicians, start revolutions, plant information. They destabilise their enemies and their allies, all in the name of causing chaos wherever they can. If a government looks like they might topple, Hydra gives them a kick. They're based mostly in government, in politics, but they're everywhere. Law enforcement, private businesses, the media. In these modern times you'll even find them stirring up hate groups on the internet." 

"Shit." 

"Exactly." He nods gravely. "That's why we can't go to the authorities. Why we can't stay in a city or a town. There's too much risk, they're too powerful." 

I'm certainly starting to understand. 

"So... What were they going to do with me?" I dread the answer. 

"Indoctrinate you. They're quite... Persuasive. If you wouldn't fight for them willingly, they'd make you do it anyway. They'd use you as a spy, probably, or a combat operative. Meaning they'd send you out on missions, to destroy something or kill someone, and they'd keep you locked up whenever they didn't need you." 

"That's what happened to you?" My question is quiet, hesitant. I don't want to pry into his trauma, and if he doesn't offer the information I won't be surprised or annoyed, but I've got to ask. I want to know. 

"Exactly." His voice is clipped, but devoid of emotion. His eyes have shuttered, the emotion closed off. Totally factual in his retelling of the experience. "I must have fought, in the beginning, hard enough that they decided I couldn't be won over. I remember lashing out more than once. Remember assaulting my handlers or trainers or doctors. I was never easy to control, even when I wasn't sure why I was fighting. So they... They put programming in my brain. Conditioned me into following their orders. They have these... This set of words-" He clears his throat, wrings his hands, clenches his jaw. "When they say them, it turns me into the Winter Soldier. I'm completely under their control. Whatever orders they give I have to follow, or it literally starts to torture me." 

"So this is all, sort of, psychological?" 

"Yeah, I suppose." He nods, kicking a pile of leaves harshly. They fly up, high into the air, and flutter downwards. I watch them rather than looking at his face. "Years of conditioning, of torture and training. If they put actual technology into my mind to control it, I dunno about it. I just know that when they speak the words, I do whatever that person says. I can't resist." 

"What do these people make you do? After they've said the words?" 

He stops abruptly. It takes a moment to realise he isn't beside me and I come to a stop a few steps ahead. I turn back, watch his shoulders rise and fall as his breathing turns harsh. His face is pointed at the ground, his dark hair hiding half of it. His hands are clenched into fists.

I just wait and stare. Watch as he struggles, as he decides. Finally, he takes a breath and relinquishes his sins to the earth beneath his feet. His eyes do not shift from the ground. 

"I was their assassin." The rough words clang through me violently. "I killed for them. Hurt people for them." 

I'm quiet just long enough that his eyes drift upwards to probe my expression. My lips are pursed in thought, my arms wrapped round my middle. I'm trying to keep my face as expressionless as possible, my body posed so as not to show fear or judgement. 

Finally, I nod. "Okay." 

I turn to start walking again, get a few paces before I find a very large, very surprised man in my path. He appears so fast he must have run. 

"What was that?" He asks, eyes wide with disbelief.

"I said okay." I reply, moving to dodge him. He shifts into my path, tilts his head at me like he's questioning the stability of my mind. 

"You're... Not bothered?" His scoffs like it's impossible. 

"Of course I'm bothered," I shake my head, "I'm bothered that Hydra did that to you, that they put you through that. I'm not bothered by you. What you did... That wasn't you." 

"But... I did it." There's an abyss of pain in those pretty eyes. In that devastating face. He carries a monument of guilt on his shoulders, and it shows as he stands before me. 

I can't help it. Can't help the emotion that wells in my chest. I step forward into the space separating us. He goes to rock back, but I catch his metal forearm to stop him. Step closer, slip my arms under his, around his ribs. Settle my head on his chest. It's a small gesture, a brief balm to the pain he's feeling. I might not be helping at all, but it's all that I have to offer. 

But it must do something, because after a long moment he wraps his arms around me too. Settles his cheek on my head. Relaxes into my embrace. 

We breathe each other in for a couple of long, silent seconds. 

He rubs a hand down my back to signify that I can let go. Leaning back, I look up into his face to offer a small smile. 

"I'm frightened of the situation." I say it quietly, because we both know we're in a tight spot here. "Not of you." 

"Glad to hear it." He says, with a stiff nod. He puts some distance between our bodies and looks hard into the trees around us like there might be something there worth watching, but we both know he's just avoiding my gaze. I guess he's not all that comfortable with being touched, and I can hardly blame him. 

I step away, turn around. Start walking again. 

"What're we doing here, Shadow, huh?" 

"What?" He's startled by the question, and looks up with a blush. 

"I mean, you know, living here." I throw an arm at the forest we're wandering aimlessly through. He looks a little less startled by the direction the conversation has gone in. "What do we do now? We stay here, grow old? Wait for the pissing sun to expand?" 

"That's not really what I had in mind." He snorts. 

"So?" My eyebrows inch upwards. I didn't realise he had a plan. 

"We stay here and we rest. We recover. We regain our memories, and then we prepare." 

"Prepare? For what?" 

"That depends on you." He shrugs his big shoulders. 

"I'm not following." 

He looks at me like I'm an idiot. I hate that stare of his. "Well, we can prepare you to exist in the real world. Half the reason I chose the middle of nowhere is because it won't matter much if you happen to create a snow storm, or set a tree on fire. If you wanna walk away, spend a life running, that's fine. I'll help you train to the point where you don't light up like a damn firework when you get a little bit annoyed." 

"What's the other option?" I tilt my head. 

"I train you to fight." 

"And then?" 

"And then you can come with me." He looks at me with such untamed rage in his eyes that fear really does thrum through me. "To burn Hydra to the ground." 

"That... Sounds like a big job." I swallow, look away, feeling the enormity of that future choke me. 

"It will be. It might last a lifetime. But..." He shakes his head, stares hard into the distance. "I can't let them get away with it. I can't let them go unpunished. Running... It's not in my nature." 

My shoulders square. My spine straightens. For the first time, I get a sense of who I am, who I used to be. Of what they stole. I smile, proud of the realisation I come to all at once, a small piece of knowledge that I share with him; "Nor is it in mine."

*** 

And just like that, training starts. 


	7. The Nightmare.

"You need a massage?" Shadow's smile is more a feral grin.

"You want a foot up your ass?" I snap back, groaning as I stretch out on the longest couch. Even that doesn't accommodate me, and my body really isn't that long.

I'm covered in sweat and dirt and sticky all over. My thighs ache and my ass aches and my feet ache more than everything put together. I'm not in pain, not really, but everything is tight and stretched too thin and calling out for rest. Every inch of me feels hot and my mouth feels full of cotton.

The couch jerks a little and I open my eyes, only to find myself nose to nose with a grinning, smug assassin. The image of him is upside down. He's braced his hands either side of my head and leaned over the couch arm, his long hair falling in my face.

"Come  _on_ , sweetheart," He drags out the words, laughter sliding between them. "It was just exercise."

"No," I disagree seriously, "That was torture. Real life torture."

"I went easy on you." He snorts, "We'll go further tomorrow."

"How about we start slow, with one session a month."

"Shut up and get on the floor." He laughs, and tugs and jiggles on my shoulders and arms until I comply. With a high-pitched moan, I roll onto the floor with a flop, landing in a pathetic heap. He's still laughing at me. "On your stomach." He prompts, prodding me with his foot.

I smack his leg away and roll myself over, settling my head on my arms and closing my eyes against the pain. The ache prickles up my whole body as I straighten and stretch my limbs.

Shadow is being awfully quiet. I flick my eyes open to find him, a suspicious question already on my tongue. Then, of course, an unexpected weight, warm and solid, settles on my lower back.

"Um, what're you doing?" He's damn heavy.

"Massage."

"Shut up."

"You don't want one?" He's still laughing.

"From you? Not really-" A groan rolls out of me, so deep and so loud I'm embarrassed. I can't exactly help it. His metal fingers are buried between my shoulder blades, grinding into the muscle. I'm in heaven.

"What was that you were saying?" He leans over to mutter it in my ear, and I try my best to elbow him. I ignore the heat in my lower stomach at the low, rough tone of his voice. It scrapes through me more thoroughly than his fingers over my swollen skin.

"Prick."

"That's what I thought." He chuckles, and settles again on my lower back. He works down my arms and over my neck and then down my spine. He shifts to kneel either side of my thighs and pauses with his hands on my hips. "Would you like your ass done hard and deep or gentle and thorough?"

I choke, splutter, and heave myself up with shaky arms, flipping myself over with the same motion. He's knocked clear off me and collides with the coffee table, shoving it back with a squeal of wood on wood. He doesn't seem bothered, too busy laughing at the top of his lungs, whole body shaking with the force of it.

"I'm done, thank you." My voice is a squeak as I scramble up onto my knees and move to stand.

"Hey, hey." He grabs my wrist, stopping me from fleeing, still chuckling. "I'm sorry, all right? I was kidding. My bad."

"That's not funny." I smack his shoulder, and he's grins. I can't help my own smile, rising unbidden and unwanted at the sight of his own amusement. He's too pretty for his own good.

"I'll do your legs," he tugs on my wrist, eyebrows up expectantly. I huff and sit back down, on my front this time. He shakes his head but doesn't ask me to turn over.

Instead I lie flat on my back, and have to focus on keeping a tight leash on my vocal cords. My thighs hurt the worst, and he works them over until my muscles are soft dough in his hands. It's a tough job not to moan in response.

He takes his time, digging, kneading, working over every inch of me. He does my ankles and my feet, which is very kind of him. I'm feeling lucid and more comfortable when he pats my knee and says I'm done.

When I drag my heavy eyelids open, he's already on his feet and raising his eyebrows down at me, smirking. I give him a scowl and sit up, and he offers a hand. I take it, but I don't expect the strength he uses to heave me upwards. I'm yanked up and off-balance, toppling right into him with a yelp.

With a gasp, he catches me with forearms around my waist, and I catch myself with my hands braced against his chest. I almost give a growl, because this is such a ridiculous fucking situation.

A situation made absolutely worse by the infernal blush rising in my cheeks. I have to look down in the hopes that my unbound hair might hide some of the fierce colour warming my cheeks.

"Sorry 'bout that." His voice is quiet, but he hasn't let go.

I can't look up, so I clear my throat and push off him, smiling a little as I straighten myself and take a measured step back.

"No problem." I say, brushing myself down. "Thank you, for that." I wave a hand to the floor and start to edge around him.

"Make sure you stretch," He says, hand on the back of his beck as he looks anywhere but me. "Before you go to bed."

It is late, the sun already set and the cold already heavy in the air, even as we'd walked back to the cabin. It's perfectly reasonable for me to go to bed now. For me to flee, too.

"Right. Sure." I give a weird, stupid little curtsy in acknowledgement before ducking, mortified, from the room.

Its as I get outside my bedroom door that I realise I have to turn back, have to face him again, because... Dammit.

I creep back into the living room, only to frown as I catch sight of him. He's slumped on the couch, hands over his face, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He looks... I don't know, embarrassed? Maybe.

"Shadow?" I call, tentative.

His reaction forces me to hide a laugh behind my hand. His head jerks up, eyes flaring wide as he shoots to his feet so quick it's like he's sat on a hot poker.

"You all right?" I frown.

"Sure, yup, yes." He's nodding, hands on his hips, eyebrows high like he's wondering why I've asked.

"You seem a little... On edge." I tilt my head.

"Not at all, I'm fine." He shrugs, "What's up?"

I purse my lips, continue staring at him for a minute. He squirms. Okay. Whatever. I decide to brush passed it.

"I um," I jerk a thumb back down the corridor. "I need a shower. Sorry."

He deflates, looking more relaxed and less tense than a second ago. "Oh. Yeah sure, that's no problem. I'll be there in a minute."

"Cool."

I flee again.

***

The yelling makes my chest ache.

I can't do anything at all about it, because I'm strapped down. Strapped down so tight I can't even move my head. Only my eyes whirl, and what I see around me is new. There are trees everywhere, trees so big that they blot out the sky and deny sunlight it's path to the ground.

But the scientists rush round like they don't notice the trees. They lean over me, rushing passed my field of vision like a hive of bees.

The trees are moving, reaching, their big boughs bending and swaying like a storm has taken hold of them. The branches seem to be growing, and they're all bending downwards. They're not aiming for the sky, but stretching for me. Like snakes, they arch and bend, slithering silently, as they invade my vision, as they block more light.

The branches and the darkness creep in. They weave passed the scientists, reaching to smother me.

The yelling gets louder, and it's me, it's me that's yelling. But it isn't all me, because there's another voice, far off, hollering with fear and panic. I can't get to it.

I jerk away from the trees and the darkness. Struggling away as the scientists breeze passed, unaware and unsympathetic. The branches inch over my face, round my throat, pressing down hard on my chest.

The darkness beats the trees. It sweeps over my eyes before the branches can invade. It doesn't bring immediate relief, but renders me powerless against the smothering limbs. They scrape against my skin, too tight, digging in, and I scream against the pain and against the restraint.

All at once, as I take one last gasping breath, my eyes become aware of their own strength and jerk wide open.

The darkness is still thick around me, and it takes a few, full gasps for me to calm my racing heart and terrified mind.

I haul myself upright, sweating and half-sobbing with the remembered fear. My hand goes to my throat, to make sure there is nothing encircling it. Of course, my throat is bare. The trees are secured behind the windowpane and confined to the forest outside the cabin.

The relief that washes over me makes me shake.

The relief is short-lived, because only a moment later, another shout pierces the still air.

I freeze, in fear and in shock, wondering if it is a real sound or a figment of my imagination. The dregs of my nightmare catching hold of reality.

Another shout, and my decision is made. I scramble up and stumble to the door in the dark, smacking my knee against the wood before I can yank it open. I rush down the hall as best I can in the gloom.

The yell I have never heard, not full of all that fear, all that urgency, but the voice I recognise.

My feet slap against the carpet, and I smack into the door in the darkness.

"Shadow! Shadow!" I holler, yanking on the handle.

It's locked, but I can hear him clearer now, shouting and yelling. Some of it might be words, the rest of it is pure fear.

My hand lights up with a flash of fierce white that makes me squint. The fork of lightning rips out of my palm, hits the handle, and splinters the wood around it. The metal handle shatters, bursting like an overripe plum, cutting into my palm.

I throw my weight against the door in the same moment, and I fall into Shadow's room.

I've never been in here before, but there isn't much to see anyway. It's as bare as mine, with a double bed and a simple set of drawers underneath the window.

Shadow occupies the bed, sprawled on his back, his limbs spreadeagled. He's kicked off the duvet, his pillows are askew. He's wearing only a pair of loose shorts, the rest of him bare to the dark. The barely-there light from the window makes the sweat on his skin shine. His torso is ballooning with the force of his breath. He's twisting and turning, convulsing with the torment of the nightmare.

I'm at the foot of the bed, reaching so I can shake his leg. I don't want to invade his space or frighten him.

"Shadow?" I murmur. "Hey, Shadow?"

He settles, calming, and for a moment I reckon he's heard me.

But then his face twists, and the yell that's dragged out of him is guttural and full of terror. He clutches at his throat and at his hair and lastly his shoulder. His flesh fingers scrabble at the scars on his chest, branching out from his metal shoulder. He's clawing at the damage, and panic roars through me as I watch his nails tear into his skin.

"Hey, hey!" I exclaim, scampering up onto the bed and crawling up next to him. "Stop it!"

I yank at his wrist, wrestling his arm back to stop him hurting himself. The damage is done though, and there are cuts opened up on his shoulder and chest. I pin his arm down with my knee and lean over him, hands on his cheeks as I shake him.

"Wake up," I urge. I'm sure you're supposed to leave a person asleep when they're having a nightmare. But I can't let him hurt himself. "It's okay, Shadow. You're okay. Please wake up!"

His breathing is erratic, but he's stopped yelling. I shake him again, roughly, yanking on his shoulders.

"Shadow!"

His eyes flash open, and they're wide, not with fear but with... Fury.

I don't even have time to gasp before his metal hand is around my throat, squeezing hard. Then I'm not over him but under him, rolling until I'm pressed deep into the mattress and he's on top of me. Leaning down, letting his weight crush me.

My eyes water, but I try not to panic, try not to fight. It might only make things worse.

I wrap one hand around his wrist, try to pull it back to relieve some pressure. He's close enough that it's easy to lift my other hand, lay my palm at his rough cheek, brush back his hair with my fingers.

"It's me." I tell him, as clearly as I can with the limited breath I have. "Shadow? It's me. It was a nightmare. It's me, all right?"

There's a slow moment that seems to last a lifetime. The metal squeezes, constricting my airwaves and I suck in a ragged gasp. I don't want to struggle, I don't want hit out at him. I want to believe that he will stop.

"Shadow."

His eyes shutter, the rage leaking out of them and horror rushing in. His eyes flood with tears, and his mouth opens wide, like he can't swallow enough air.

"Fuck." He gasps, yanking his hand from my throat and rolling back on his knees, away from me, to the foot of the bed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I'm left gasping flat on my back, relief and panic making my heart rush so fast it aches. My fingers probe at my throat, checking for serious damage but finding nothing. I sit up, because the sound of his harrowed sobs and low mutterings compel me to do so.

The sight of him makes my stomach clench. He perches on his knees, hands over his sweaty face, kneeling like he's at prayer. Admitting to all the tragedy in his broken heart. My body physically can't resist the sight of his bent shoulders, slumped back and his bowed head.

How could I not scramble towards him?

He doesn't react to my hands on his cheeks, trying to pull away from me. But I can't allow that. I wrap my arms tight around him. I cradle his head against my chest, encircle his shoulders and neck. Worm as close as I possibly can, practically clambering into his lap.

Slowly, after a moment of weak struggle, he seems to accept the embrace. His arms creep around my waist. His forehead brushes the hollow beneath my throat.

His chest heaves and his sobs fill the air.

"I didn't mean to." He tells me thickly, quietly, speaking into the exposed skin of my chest. "I didn't realise. I'm so sorry."

I hush him, palming back his mussed hair. "You didn't hurt me." I brush my hands down his back. "I forgive you. It's all right."

He doesn't acknowledge what I've said, he just continues to gasp and cry, so I repeat the words as often as I can. He seems to calm after a while, but the strength of his hold on me does not slip away with his panic. With a small effort, I manoeuvre him back up the bed, tugging here and there, coaxing him gently. I drag the discarded duvet with us, because the air has made me chilly despite the heat of Shadow's body.

"Lay down with me." I whisper, hands tugging at his biceps.

He complies, almost gratefully, pushing me down with the weight of his body before I can lie back of my own accord. I hit the pillows and his weight settles on me immediately. It's a welcome weight, the kind that smothers but doesn't crush. The contact is welcome. The heat of him is welcome. I bring the duvet up anyway, covering his bare back and shoulders, tucking it around us.

Without hesitating he nudges his head into position on my chest, beneath my chin. His thighs nudge my knees apart so they can make way for his own legs. I don't mind. I guess, more than anything, he needs comfort. The position makes me want to blush, makes me a little fidgety, but it's not as if he objected to getting in the shower with me. He needs this, and I owe him.

Besides, being pinned under him isn't exactly an awful place to be.

With a smile, I shift my head to kiss his forehead, brush back his hair. "We're okay now, Shadow."

His hold on me tightens briefly, acknowledgement of the words. He shifts his own head, presses a kiss to the centre of my chest. The contact makes my heart race, but I fight to calm the stupid organ down. There's no telling if he can hear it or not.

"Thank you." He mutters, his voice heavy with exhaustion. I'm still brushing my hands down his back, trying to soothe him.

A while passes, his breathing grows deep, his hold on me relaxes a fraction. I grow heavy with tiredness, content with the warmth and weight on top of me. I feel safe, protected, and the consistency of his breathing is an odd, hypnotic lullaby.

Just as my eyes are starting to slide closed, just as my breathing evens, Shadow starts a little. His head lifts, but then settles immediately. He sighs, squeezes me again, like he's making sure I'm still here. And then -

"My name is Bucky."

Before I can say anything, before I can gasp a question, he's asleep. 


	8. The Routine.

I've been awake for a while, too frightened to move from my position on top of her. She could be awake, for all I know, but I don't want to roll off or rock back in case I disturb her sleep.

Besides, it's a comfy enough perch, and she doesn't seem uncomfortable with the weight of me. So I let myself lie there, head on her chest while her heartbeat strums under my ear. Strangely, it seems to run a little faster than a normal heartbeat. Not so much that it worries me, but fast enough to know she is different. She's got one hand on the back of my head, and occasionally her fingers sift through my hair. It is... A comfort. One that I don't remember ever receiving before. If I have felt this, if this is not the first time, then those memories are lost.

But not everything is lost. I remember it, my name. Finally,  _finally_ it has emerged from the depths of my shredded memory. It feels like I can release the tension I've been collecting in the pit of my stomach.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

It's a funny name, and it's awkward and clunky in my mind when I try to claim it as my own. I try to pin it to the front of my skull as a reminder, a sign. It does feel awkward, a bit too big to fit into the fragments of broken memory I've collected. Despite this, I know instinctively that it's right.

My name. My very own name. I'm insanely proud of claiming it.

Still, Bucky is not the whole of my identity. No matter, because that has risen from my mind too.

James Buchanan Barnes.

It's a good name, a solid name, and why I ever allowed Bucky to stick I'm not sure, but Bucky feels more comfortable. There's more warmth attached to Bucky than there is to the full, formal title. Like... Like I've heard people say that more often. Like the ones who kept that name in their mouths said it with love, with kindness.

Yeah, I'll keep Bucky.

The nightmare that came with the name was not all that welcome.

A voice from a long way off, calling that name in terror. A gloved hand, reaching desperately. The fall that came when that hand didn't reach me. I didn't hit the ground though, I hit water instead. Icy cold and choking, and then nothing but pain. Pain and murky images. I saw metal and fire and pure white light, so bright it dazzled.

Then of course, she'd woken me. I still felt the curve of her fragile throat under my hand, her body bent beneath mine. Her wide dark eyes and the panicked thrumming of her swift heart.

Her heartbeat had stopped me before her voice had. I'd know that sound anywhere. I'd listened to it hard and long enough to recognise it, even deranged with fear and remembered agony.

Her breathing changes under my ear. She shifts, makes a low groan, and her hands flex where they rest on my body. One on the nape of my neck, the other on my back. Her hips roll, up and then down, lifting me at the stomach. I stay still as stone, not wanting to startle her.

She must open her eyes, must realise why she's pinned down. Her heart runs swifter.

But she doesn't move to struggle from under me. She settles instead, huffs a little, and brushes again at my hair. She doesn't know I'm awake, but she seems content to stay beneath me. I don't startle when she shifts her face and presses a small kiss to my forehead.

She saves me the embarrassment of announcing I'm awake by shaking my shoulder.

"Bucky?"

She remembered. I'm surprised and touched by that small act of kindness.

I hum, the noise groggy with sleep, so she assumes she's woke me.

"You awake?"

I hum again to signify I am, but she doesn't rush to move me. We lay like that for a while. Both of us aware that we are awake, but content to lay entangled, lay breathing. Working our way slowly towards wakefulness.

"Are you okay, Bucky?"

I like the sound of my name, especially shrouded in her croaky voice, thick from sleep.

"I'm okay." I assure her, and squeeze her body where I'm holding it. My arms are tucked under her, one hand wrapped up and around her shoulder, the other stuffed up under the pillow. My fingers are tangled in her long hair.

"Good." She sighs.

The pregnant silence tells me she's waiting for me to speak, but she doesn't prod. We're good at that. At not prodding. At avoiding subjects we should probably be talking about. Maybe we'd feel better, if we spoke to someone, but neither of us are willing to be the first one to admit it.

After another couple of lazy minutes, I groan and move. Nudging up onto my knees and pulling my limbs out from the coil of hers.

Looking down at her is the wrong thing to do, because I immediately feel my face flush with warmth.

She's rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. Good job too, because I'm stuck looking at her like I've been petrified. I'm kneeling between her thighs, her legs thrown either side of my hips, raised up at the knee. Her legs are bare, the shirt she's wearing - my shirt, far too big - rolled up to her hips, exposing her underwear. Her hair is spread in a wide arc above her head. Frizzy and tangled from sleep, the faded orange looks like molten lava in the low light.

My breathing hitches. She is... A dream.

I reach for her like I'm bewitched. Just a brush of my fingers over the curve of her thigh. Just to appreciate the soft skin, growing more full every day as her health returns. The scars remain, criss-crossing over one another, vivid purple marring the pale flesh. I can see them too at her hips, occupying the space beneath her navel, angry purple and violent crimson.

"Bucky?"

My eyes flash up, guilty, to find her staring. Her cheeks are washed with rose pink, her breathing a little deep. Her copper eyebrows have inched up, questioning.

I draw my hand from her thigh like I've been stung. I shouldn't be touching her. She wouldn't want someone like me touching her, not now and not ever. I don't deserve it. Don't deserve to look at the scars I could have prevented ever being made.

"Sorry." I swallow, looking away. "I wanted to check on your wounds."

The words feel like rotten fruit in my mouth. Her pink cheeks flame immediately to angry red, and she sits up abruptly. Her shirt she tugs down, before scooting back and away from me, disconnecting all contact.

"Obviously." She spits the word and looks away.

Angry, probably, that I've touched her again. She's ordered me not to enough times.

"I'm going to go have breakfast." The words are a snap, and there's not a doubt in my mind that I've irritated her. I'm great at ruining gentle moments. She shoves past me to scramble off the bed, her movements brisk. I'm left in her wake, a little deflated that I've tarnished that moment between us. When I glance up to watch her leave, my mouth goes slack. Because as she's rushed to move, her chin has lifted, her hair has parted, and my heart stutters to a stop.

"Wait." My voice cracks.

I catch her forearm, a ghost of a touch, but she stops of her own accord too, twisting back at the edge of the bed. As she watches me with a frown, I palm back her hair and grip her chin, as gentle as I can. I twist her head to better inspect the patchwork of bruises along her throat.

"What is it?" The croak in her voice has not faded, and I realise it's not from sleep at all. It's because I've caused damage.

"I hurt you." The simmering rage at myself is instantaneous, and it bubbles over, the words come out twisted by a snarl. "There's bruises all over your throat."

"Oh." She lifts a hand to run her fingers over the damaged area. Pink and purple splotches have already pooled. It'll be black and blue by lunchtime.

"I'm so sorry, love." I rush to say it, already cursing myself. "It won't happen again, I just-"

I don't want to make excuses, there are none. A normal man wouldn't do this to someone he cares about. A normal man wouldn't be such a danger.

"Fucking hell," Impossibly, she's grinning at me. "It was an accident. I'm not angry and it doesn't hurt."

"That's no excuse."

"That's  _literally_ the definition of an excuse." She disagrees, squinting at me like I'm an idiot. She does that a lot.

"I could have killed you. I could have done real damage." I snap.

"Why are you so eager to nail yourself to a cross? You're not a  _monster,_  Bucky. You didn't do it on purpose. You had a nightmare and I woke you up in the middle of it. You acted instinctively because you were frightened. You apologised, and I accepted your apology. Can I go have breakfast now?"

"Why aren't you angrier?" I demand, does she completely lack self-preservation?

"So you didn't listen to a word I just said? Cool." She rolls her eyes and moves to climb off the bed again. I let her go, dumbfounded she's brushing this aside.

"But I hurt you." I say it to her back. She stops, just out of bed. Turns to look back at me. The amusement slips away as her eyes catch mine, and she must see the torment on my face. She sighs, a deep breath to steady herself. She does that a lot too.

"Come here." She opens her arms, and I feel like a child as she coaxes me into her embrace. I settle on the edge of the bed and wrap my arms around her hips, my face against her stomach. She wraps one arm around my shoulders and the other she strokes through my hair.

A wave of déja vu hits me in the sternum, and a shudder assaults my entire system. I've felt this before, been in this exact position before. I've felt a light hand on my head, comforting to the touch. Though... I get the feeling I was smaller then. That the woman holding me was bigger, taller and fuller at the hips. The position is familiar, but the hips I hold are not.

"Bucky?" I draw away, looking up. Her eyebrows are raised.

"I'm fine." I don't want to share, not now, not while the memory is only half-finished. "I'm angry at myself."

"I know you like to torture yourself, but I really don't think it's a big deal. If you'd done it out of malice, we'd have a problem. If I thought I was in real danger, you bet your ass I'd have sent you across the room."

"Really?" I send a smile her way, and she grins back.

"Damn right." She's smirking, but there's a glint in her eyes. A hard edge of steel that serves as a very real warning. She takes my chin in her slim fingers, tilts my head back so she can meet my gaze. Her eyes are midnight dark, and her teeth flash when she speaks, like a she-wolf pulling back it's maw in a growl. "Some men aren't sorry for creating bruises, Bucky. If I thought you were one of those men, you'd already be dead."

She drops my chin and moves for the door that currently hangs in splinters. I watch her leave, a little shaken at her words. I wonder, briefly, how often men have bruised her skin before. I do not feel sorry for the ones who try to leave their marks in the future.

***

It becomes very clear, very quickly, that she is more powerful than anything I've ever come across.

We exercise in the mornings after a light breakfast; nothing too bad. Cardio and muscle building, to get her stamina and strength back to a decent level. In the afternoons after lunch we work on combat. Gradually, I teach her how to fight. How to throw a punch without breaking her wrist and kick something without breaking an ankle. She learns the basics quickly, fiercely, like there's a war on the horizon and she longs to see the guns flash.

Her eagerness floors me sometimes, her intensity, and I'm sure I've seen it before. There must have been someone, someone small, who thought of throwing themselves into a big war. Because when I watch her train until she's panting, a panic rises in my chest that doesn't match any memories.

But the training is not what worries me. She's progressing at a normal rate, there is no super soldier in her. Her bones are normal, her muscles too. She doesn't heal fast and she has to rest more often than I do.

It's the evening when we discover what she is and what she's capable of.

After dinner we go out into the woods, a safe distance from the cabin. I try to help at first, but we soon discover that I'm so far out of my depth it's laughable. I can only sit and watch at a safe distance.

The first couple of days, she played with the lightning. Only sparks appeared the first day, zipping from one palm to the other. By the third, she could light up her whole body. The forks of electricity flew off every inch of her, even her eyes glowed blue.

By the end of that week, she could throw forks of lightning into the sky. After three weeks, she had pretty good aim. She smashed a glass bottle balanced on a branch a hundred feet away, and she didn't even char the branch it stood on.

Once she'd mastered the lightning, she moved on. Fire came next, eagerly, and she mastered that quicker than the lightning. It wasn't effective for offensive fighting, but as a defense it was pretty impressive. A wall of white hot flame would definitely deflect a punch, I reasoned.

After the fire, came water. That one was more difficult. She was trying to summon the snow from the labs. It took a while to realise that she should have been summoning water instead. Once she'd called that to her, she could pull the temperature right out of it and create snow. She couldn't create water, like she did the lightning and the fire, she could only control what was around her. Usually, that meant pulling it from the heavy clouds in the sky. I soon noticed that downpours came when she felt sad.

Air was so easy she barely focused on it for a week. She thought it was boring, but the small tornadoes she could create in her hands fascinated me.

Of course, when she tried to master earth, she didn't get a wink of progress. She tried for a week without even a flicker of power.

"Maybe you don't have that one?" I suggest as we walk back to the cabin after another unsuccessful session. We'd sat on the ground until night had pressed in. Even then she hadn't wanted to give in.

"It's there." She assures, shaking her head. "I can  _feel_  it."

The sky rumbles overhead, and I glance up with a scowl. "Can you at least hold off until we're inside?"

A sharp glance, and I was immediately soaked to the bone as the rain came down harsh as her mood.

"Bucky?"

I hum as I feed more wood into the fire. We don't have to bother with matches anymore, she lights the evening fires now.

"You're not... Scared of me, are you?"

I shift my head to frown at her. She's shrouded in a heavy blanket, a smudge of dirt on her cheek from where she'd pressed her hands to the ground. Another unsuccessful attempt. It's getting a lot colder. We've been here for two and a half months, and winter has come in full force. It'll start snowing soon, with no help from her.

I take a blanket for myself and and steal the armchair opposite her.

"Why would I be?"

"I see you watching me when I train. Your frown seems to get deeper every time I do something new."

"That frown isn't for you, sweetheart. Yeah, it worries me that you seem to be developing abilities so quick, but I'm not surprised. From the way they spoke back at the facility, this is normal, normal as it can be for you, anyway. I knew you were going to be powerful."

"So why the frowning?"

I snort, "I frown so much because the more I watch you control, the more it confirms to me how important you'll be to Hydra. They won't ever let a treasure like you go. They'll hunt you to the ends of the Earth if they have to. That's what scares me, not you."

She looks up, those dark eyes set aflame as they reflect the fire. They look orange in the light, hellish, but they are drenched in tragedy. My heart aches to look into them.

"You're not afraid?"

I shrug, "No."

She frowns. This isn't a satisfactory answer. I think she's looking for something more serious.

"Listen doll, you're a good weather-lady. But I'll still kick your ass if the situation calls for it, okay?"

All right, so I'm bad at serious.

"You're such a prick." She rolls her eyes at me, but the smile she's fighting says more.

Somehow, we're both learning what the other needs. Our habits, our moods. We're starting to navigate each other easier. She leaves me be when I slam the kitchen cupboards too hard. But she delivers me a cup of hot chocolate and a bowl of fruit when I find myself staring too long out the windows. When it rains, delivering toast and a cup of tea will lift her mood enough that the clouds part and the sun peaks through. When I go for a run in the mornings, she is waiting with breakfast when I return. If the run lasts longer than usual she makes breakfast something sweet, because she knows this means I've had a rough night. If she doesn't emerge from bed in the morning, I go in to collect her, picking her up so she can sit in the living room.

Sometimes, she spends the day completely silent. Some days she spends the day furious, setting things on fire with the slightest touch. Other days, I'm the problem. Things shatter in my hand. I snap at her. I disappear to chop wood, because I want to destroy something. She'll follow me on days like that, and sit nearby to watch me. The sound of her heartbeat, her breathing, comforts me even if I am too stubborn to admit that fact.

We've not had anymore nighttime incidents. I don't mean nightmares, I suppose we've both had plenty of those. But she hasn't had to rush into my room again. Not that I've been looking forward to the next incident, or any such bullshit. Still, I haven't slept as well as I did that night. I can't remember the last time I slept all the way through. I run on probably about four hours sleep. Max. Six if I'm lucky.

"Do you remember anything?"

I'm pulled out of my thoughts by the jarring question. She asks sometimes, especially since things seem to come back to me more often than her.

"Not much." I shake my head, rub a hand over my scruffy, hairy face. I need a shower and a trim. "Flashes. Bits and pieces. The years with Hydra get clearer every day, and those memories come easily."

She nods like this news is unsurprising.

"I've got a grasp on my age, though."

Her eyes light up, excited for this new information. Truth is, I've been avoiding telling her the news all day. I don't want to freak her out.

"And?" She prompts.

"Like, a hundred." I try to say it like this might be a normal thing.

"Pardon?" She splutters. Her eyes are wide.

"How old did you expect me to be?" I challenge, like it's her being weird. I'm just trying to save my own pride. I'm  _old_.

"Like? Thirty?" Her voice is high-pitched. She's freaking out, I don't doubt it. Of course she would. Of course this isn't normal.

"I lived through the war."

"Which  _one?"_  She demands. Her mouth is open.

This... Is an excellent question. I wince.

"I was born in 1917."

Her mouth hits the fucking floor.

"What the fuck is the  _current_  year?" Her question is a breathy exhale.

"I dunno." I say it defensively. She's making me feel bad. She's never going to get passed this new information. Things are going to change now, I can feel it in the air. She's never going to crawl into bed with me again, that's for damn sure. Hydra is still kicking me in the dick from afar.

"You've literally lived through every conflict of the 20th Century." She lets a hysterical, high-pitched laugh. "You're ancient."

"It's not funny." I warn her.

Too late, she's already laughing. Her face turns beetroot red as she chucks her head back and hollers. I sit there fuming, arms crossed over my chest as I glower. In all fairness, it's a better reaction than I expected.

"Oh my god!" I yell, because she's slapping her knee and gasping for breath. I lob a pillow at her face, and she makes an effort to choke down her amusement.

"All right, all right." She's still chuckling, wiping tears from beneath her eyes. "Keep your toupee on."

"I'm gonna beat the shit out of you." I growl, and move to stand.

"Okay!" She exclaims, holding her hands up in surrender. "It's not funny. Sorry. I'm done."

I settle, still glowering. My cheeks are warm. Whatever. I expected her to turn green with disgust and distance herself from me forever, so I can handle her making fun. It's the better option.

"So, how come you're still..." She waves her hand at me.

I raise my eyebrows.

"Well." She waves her hand again, up and down. "Like... a beefcake."

I choke. "What?"

"You  _know_. Ripped.  _Robust_. Strapping, you could say."

I splutter a laugh. "You could say that." But I'm mocking her.

"Herculean, that's a good word." She says.

"You're so full of shit." I shake my head, but my cheeks are definitely feeling warm. She thinks I look like fucking Hercules? "I look  _young_  because it's a side effect of the super-soldier serum."

"So you're like... Immortal?" She's impressed.

"Nah." I snort. "It's supposed to give me enhanced durability, meaning I'm harder to kill. Also better regenerative healing which means that if you try to kill me, I recover quicker. I was in my mid-twenties when I was captured, and you think I look thirty, I suppose it's slowed the ageing down to a crawl. I'll still die eventually."

"Huh." She contemplates for a moment. "Do you think they did that to me?"

Shit, I didn't even consider the questions this would bring up about herself. "I don't know. You and I don't have many abilities in common. Then again, it's very effective to keep your weapon alive for a long time. Why build a powerhouse if it'll burn out in a few years? Genuinely, I don't know, but I'm saying expect the worst."

She nods. Accepts this as a possibility.

She does that a lot too. Takes the information I offer, chews it over like it's meat to be worked on for a long time. I feel awful every time I have to convey the horrors of Hydra's history. Every time I have to bring up the name and remind her all over again of what they did to her, what they took away. But she accepts it all calmly. She doesn't quake, doesn't shy away, doesn't even flinch. She asks patiently, nods patiently. Accepts everything with little more than a frown.

It's how I know there is strength in her. I knew that already, have seen it flash a hundred times before. I saw it the very first time I laid eyes on her. Strapped upright to a table, fire licking it's way up her body, singeing her clothes. She threw her head back and laughed. Like it was merely a pyre she'd climbed for the sake of seeing whether she could reach the top.

That manic creature seems a world away from the woman who sits before me now. Not a wholly different person, just changed. That creature, trapped and vicious, snarling and hollering, tearing so hard at her bonds she'd torn into her skin, had been a wild animal. There'd been fury and terror in her eyes. Her skin had been battered, bruised, her limbs weak and spindly. She'd looked broken. Still strong, still mesmerising, but terrifying to behold.

She'd taken my breath away then, in that first moment, but she takes my breath away now too.

Her hair is coiled in soft waves over her shoulders, falling down into her lap it's so long. It looks gold in this light, reflecting the flames, but in the daytime it steals the fire she commands. Warming her image with it's soft orange tone. Her skin isn't sickly or dry or brittle, now a smooth, pale canvas, unmarked by violence. Her limbs have grown fuller, her hips grown wider, her thighs swelling. There is muscle on her now, fat too, and she looks healthier and sturdier for it. This woman looks calm, serene, shrouded in flames and shadows. A painting so beautiful it physically cannot be contained inside it's canvas.

And those  _eyes_ , dark as night and as captivating as the stars it carries. It's no wonder I find it hard to breathe when she looks at me.

"Bucky?"

I wince, cheeks warming as I realise she's been looking right back at me for more than a few moments. She smiles, coppery eyebrows inching upwards, asking without speaking.

"I'm fine." I assure her, "Sorry."

She looks away with a smile, a small secret in that one curve of her mouth. 


	9. The Car.

"I've never known anyone so fucking stupid in all my life."

"Oh yeah? I've never known anyone so fucking stubborn!"

"That's rich coming from such an absolute bastard."

"You're the one that was cheating!"

"I fucking told you that I didn't!"

"You're a goddamn liar!"

The fire lets out a belch of white hot flame, which we both lean back simultaneously to dodge. He doesn't blink at the inferno inches from his face, but his stormy eyes narrow in utter disdain for me.

"You're a sore loser." I spit, and sweep the scrabble pieces back into the small canvas bag.

He throws up his hands, the metal sending a flash of reflected light in an arc across the living room. "You  _looked_  into the bag when you picked a letter. It's  _against_  the  _rules_."

"You need to get your pissing eyes checked, you decrepit old man. I  _happened_  to glance down, I never looked!"

Bucky tares the board he's packing away clean in two as his hands spasm in anger. I raise an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Great, that's the third board game this week, you miserable bastard. Cheers for that."

"These games wouldn't turn into a screaming match if you played them honourably!" He accuses, chucking the torn pieces back into their rightful box.

"Honourably?" I scoff so hard it hurts my throat. "It's  _Scrabble_."

"Exactly." He shakes his head and starts slamming the other pieces into the box. The cardboard whines under his heavy hands. "You've ruined yet another game for me. A perfectly good game. It's educational and aesthetically pleasing. And there's the opportunity to prove you're superior to your opponent. And you've fucking tarnished it, you absolute monster."

"So because I've won, the whole game is ruined?" I demand and shove up onto my feet, kicking aside the pillow I was sat on. "I see what this is. It's a dick-measuring contest, and you're pissed that mine is bigger than yours."

He grows still as carved marble. He's wearing a black vest. A rare sight that leaves his arms bare and delivers the complete picture of the metal fused to his body. It's his entire shoulder joint, and it even creeps across to occupy some of his chest. The scars branching out from the metal are deep purple, angry against his light skin. Of course, his flesh arm is just as impressive, just as swollen with muscle with fine cut lines and visible veins. The curves of both biceps, both forearms, are wholly captivating.

Despite his murderous expression, he looks soft as a blanket that's been soaking in the warmth of a fire. The vest hugs his body. The grey sweatpants he's got on hug his thick thighs. He's got his hair back in a tiny bun, the shorter strands escaping to frame that chiselled face. The scruff on his chin is no longer a beard, but the surviving shadow from his shave a few days back.

He's a vision, but I wouldn't tell him that, mostly because I know he's ready to throw the table at me.

"Don't you talk disrespectfully about my dick." He warns, and beneath that rough expression - a hint of laughter.

"Why? Does the subject make you a  _tiny, little_  bit insecure?"

"You little shit." He's up on his feet in a flash and I shriek and throw a blanket at him.

I scramble back onto the couch as he leaps the low coffee table like it's barely there. My hands light up, pale blue electricity sizzling along my skin. The sight gives him pause as his hands reach to grab me, a step away.

"Try it, dickhead." I goad him with a smirk.

Of course, daring Bucky Barnes to do something, I've found, is always a bad idea.

I'm stood on the couch, looking down at him, and he's stood with his knees against the edge of it. He's glaring and I'm grinning, the protection of the lightning enough to make me smug.

It doesn't provide too much protection, I find immediately. Because rather than touching my palms, Bucky grabs my forearms. Oh. Didn't think of that.

Our struggle is vicious, pulling and yanking at one another. He clambers onto the couch too, better to tower over me. He's always making fun of my fucking height.

"Asshole." He barks at me, yanking me into his torso to throw me off balance.

"Twat." I snap at him, and wrench my arms backwards. Hard.

It's a very bad idea.

I'm so eager to yank away, I throw every ounce of my body weight behind it. Of course, I don't realise that my knees are against the back of the couch. And as I tip backwards, my legs sweep out beneath me. Bucky is off-balance on the plush surface, and he's not holding onto anything. So where I go, he goes, and down we both go over the back of the stupid couch.

He throws an arm out as we fall, clinging to the couch's frame, and the combined weight flips it backward with a bang.

We land in a heap with a thump of flesh and bone on solid wood. Elbows and hips and shoulders slamming into the floor with sharp knocks.

I shriek and he gasps, both shocked.

But the fall was short and we land amongst pillows and blankets from the flipped couch, and it doesn't hurt. I'm soon laughing, more at his stunned expression than anything.

"You are so-" He wrestles with my hands, fighting to pin them above my head. He's laughing, breathless, eyes lit up with amusement. "So insufferable."

"You're only saying that-" I try to wriggle away, but end up underneath that heavy, unrelenting body. I get a knee under him, against his sternum, try to push to get some leverage, but he's made of solid, unyielding force. My leg collapses as he goes up onto his knees, his thighs pressed right against the backs of mine. I go slack, because I can't physically beat him, and honestly? I'm not sure I want to. This position works fine for me, even if it does light my cheeks up like there's fire coursing under my skin. Course, I've gotta save face. "You're only saying that because you've got a small dick."

The laugh that rasps out of me at his scandalised expression is pure, undiluted delight.

His stern expression is carried away on the wisps of my laughter, and his whole face melts into a winning smile. He laughs too, breathy and low as he slumps. His torso falls against mine, his forehead against my jaw. He laughs into my chest and I laugh into his hair.

If I could stuff this moment into a picture frame, I'd tack a name to it - Warmth.

How could it not be? We're drenched in the golden light of the fire, which chases the winter chill from the air. His body is heavy and hot on top of mine, but not constricting, not suffocating. Our laughter is sweet, our position playful, his hold on me and my hold on him is exactly that. Not tight, not painful, a simple opportunity to touch skin to skin. This feeling is a twisted mess of big emotions - my amusement, my exhilaration, my exasperation, my contentment. It warps into a golden, glowing spot of warmth, right there in the centre of my chest.

He pulls back. He's still holding my wrists above my head and his face is close enough to mine that his hair tickles my cheeks. Our noses almost brush.

"You threw a blanket?" He grins.

I shrug as best I can. "I panicked."

He snorts. Rocks back on his knees, sitting up and pulling me with him. This isn't much better; my thighs thrown either side of his hips, my chest almost flush against his. We're shamefully close together. My cheeks flame brighter and sweat slips down my spine. He's smirking, smug, self-satisfied as I try to avoid those big, grey eyes.

"Okay, sweetheart?" His voice is a low, gravelly murmur. It rumbles right through me, echoing back in my own chest, in the pit of my stomach. My breath whooshes out of me, shaky. He knows exactly what he's doing. His grin and his eyes are far too bright, far too vigilant as he tracks my movements, my expressions.

"Fine." I mutter, and it's time for me to leave. I need a breather, I need cool air. If I squirm against him or shiver under his gaze for much longer, I've got no idea what'll happen, where this will go. We were only playing Scrabble, for gods sake. How have I ended up here?

As soon as I twist my wrists, he releases them. Shifts back, out of my space. I like that about him. I like how when I give even the smallest hint that it's over, that it's too much, he backs off. He doesn't pout, doesn't make me feel bad. I know that respect is deeply ingrained in Bucky Barnes' personality. It goes all the way to his core. I admire that.

I scoot back off him, and he stands, offering his hands to pull me up. I smile in thanks, help him lift the couch back to it's rightful position. We don't say anything, but it's not awkward. Something happened, there was a moment, now we move on, I guess. We don't ask, we don't discuss it. We brush by it.

We do that a lot.

We didn't talk about showering together. About sharing the bed. We won't talk about this incident either. Maybe... Maybe we should.

"I'm going to sit outside for a little while." I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. Give him a smile that says I'm not running away, I only need a minute.

"Sure." His voice is even, his face open and calm. He doesn't feel bad about what happened, and I'm glad. He likes to beat himself up over so much so often, I'm happy he doesn't apologise for that moment. "Here." He tosses me a blanket.

I wrap it around my shoulders, shuffle to the door in my socked feet. I purse my lips when I glance back, watch him rearrange the messy couch. He looks happy, content, a leftover smile on his lips.

Underneath it all, my pride stings a little at how he pinned me to the ground so easily, so quick -

"Bucky?" He glances up, eyebrows raised. I put my hand on the door handle, give him a flippant grin. "I did cheat."

I flee before his wrath can singe my ass.

***

Bucky and I spend a lot of time together, and a lot of the time I don't mind at all. We spend half the time in silence anyway. But still, sometimes, I really do like the opportunity to be alone.

The crisp, chilly air is a welcome blanket for my flushed skin. I'm not sure where that stupid moment came from, but it's best it doesn't happen again. I can't imagine Bucky has any interest in me, and he's going to get skittish if he thinks I've got any sort of feelings for him.

Which I  _don't_. He's just... A companion. Barely a friend. Just a guy, who saved my life and took me in and kept me safe.

"Shit." I sigh, and plod down the wooden stairs and turn barefoot to walk the forest.

I turn right, walking the perimeter of the cabin. I need quiet, me and this loud mind of mine. I should be focused on finding my memories and mastering my powers. Not daydreaming about blue grey eyes and kind smiles and broad shoulders. He's a walking distraction. One that I  _don't_ have feelings for. He's pretty, and he's kind sometimes, but otherwise he's a real fucking asshole. 

It's annoying that memories are coming back to him. Maybe that's the reason I'm skittish, off balance. I must ask him every single day if there's more information, more flashes of who he is and where he came from. He knows he's American. Knows his age. His name. He's had dreams of faces and cities, of real events that make up the tapestry of his fragmented life.

Me? All I've got so far is fucking nightmares.

Torture, mostly. When I woke, I had only those three memories that Bucky and my abilities occupied. First the fire, then the snow and then the lightning. Those three, tiny snippets of pain made up the whole of my being.

I have more now. Some of it is interwoven with fantasy, but most of it is real. White hot, soul-shaking pain, terror and panic.

Some scars have been claimed. New memories show me where they came from. The slashes on my back; thick lengths of leather, snapped against my skin by a guard. The small, round scars marching a uniformed line down side of my waist; the spot where they injected the serum. Other memories, less informative, plague my nights. Being held under water by a strong hand. Being tied to a metal grate while electricity shoots through it. Being confined to a tiny, dark space with barely any air to gasp in. Shoved into a room to listen to a loud, piercing noise for days on end.

I wake sweating and crying, shaking half the time. I wouldn't think Bucky can hear anything; I'm sure he has his own night terrors to occupy his mind.

I've been circling the cabin without thinking about it. I don't like going too far into the forest without Bucky; I've no idea what country we're in, who knows if there are fucking bears or wolves or...  _Moose_  out there. I'm at the back of the cabin now though, and my eyes flick to the darkness beneath the structure.

There's about seven feet of empty space beneath the building. Bucky keeps chopped wood under the front of it and there's a storage space dug into the ground, for food and weapons. I know this only because he's told me, but he's never asked me to retrieve anything or invited me to look.

Peering into the dark, I realise why.

There's a low, long black mass. A spot where the black is thicker, and more solid. There's something there.

Shuffling forward, I flick my wrist. Without much strain, a globe of fire sparks in my palm. It's orange flame illuminates the space, and my stomach twists. Frowning, I venture further into the gloom. The black mass has been concealed as far from the edges of the cabin as possible. Almost directly in the middle of it, I note. As my light falls on it, I realise it can only be one thing.

Ducking low to dodge the cobwebs, I reach a hand for the pitch black tarpaulin and fling it back. With a huff of irritation, I'm proven right.

It's a fucking car.

***

I don't have to wait long to put my plan into action.

Bucky makes good use of the freezer, meaning he doesn't have to stock up all too often. There's lots of tinned goods too, and long lasting foods.

I know for certain that he's been on at least one supply run, because for the first two weeks here we didn't have a hair brush. Then suddenly - we did. He said he found it in a drawer, but that's bollocks. But we've been running low on things lately; eggs and chocolate, shampoo and bleach. A few things, and he doesn't tell me that we've run out, he substitutes it all smoothly with other things. He must think I'm one dumb bastard, because I've only got to look to know what we were eating last week has gone this week.

Of course, I don't mention the car. Don't comment on the low supplies. We go about our routine, a little awkward after the incident with the couch but otherwise as normal as we can be.

But I'm itching for him to go on the supply run, because... I'm going with him. It's a big fucking risk. I know he'd kick my ass to the moon and back for even considering it. But I need a change of scenery or I'm going to start pulling my damn hair out.

So I wait, patient as I can. I rush to check the cupboards every morning, afraid he'll go in the middle of the night without me realising. But I know Bucky Barnes, and I know I only have to wait for a few things to run out before he goes out of his mind. One, bacon. Second, coffee. Third, of course, is hair bands. Bucky, he goes through three a day. His grip is too tight, his yank too hard, and they snap in his hands almost every time he has to tie his hair back. He's had his hair loose for at least five days, and it's driving him mad. He'll have to buy more, and sooner rather than later.

It's actually much easier to tell when he's going than I thought it would be.

He makes our daily exercise long and hard. General fitness in the morning; a very long run and then muscle building and cardio workouts. I barely get lunch before he's got me outside again, combat training. This lasts forever, and he makes me fight until I'm heaving for breath and aching all over.

After dinner, we're outside again. Not only to develop my abilities, but to work them into my fighting technique. So that's more fucking exercise.

I complain and grouch and grump, but this he expects this behaviour. His own behaviour doesn't change, he's not shifty or weird, but he didn't have bacon today at all, so this is a sure sign.

Then, as I relax with a hot chocolate after a long shower, he asks a final, fatal question, and my mind is made up.

"Hey, sweetheart?" I'm starting to think that's my actual name.

"Hmm?" I'm fighting sleep, swaddled in a blanket near the fire. Cold is starting to seep into the house regardless of the flames. We'll have to start keeping them lit through the days too.

"Can I, uh, have that hair tie?" He's on the other end of the couch, and my toes are tucked under his thigh.

I glance up from my cup, see him gazing longingly at my wrist.

I look down at my only hair tie. The last one in the house, no doubt.

"No."

"Please?"

"Hell no."

"Doll, I'm begging."

"Hell  _fucking_  no."

"You're insufferable. And selfish."

I scoff at him, "Maybe if you weren't so heavy-handed you wouldn't ruin every single one of yours. This is mine. My one. Piss off."

He pinches my thigh in response and I yelp, yanking my legs out of his reach. "Asshole." He grunts at me.

"Prick." I bite back.

I'm certain; tonight is the night. My suspicions are only confirmed when he announces he's heading to bed, earlier than usual. I never stay up without him, so I head to bed too.

I give it only half an hour before I get dressed as quiet as I can. No clothes of my own, of course, and it's too cold for Bucky's shorts, so I've stolen a pair of his jogging bottoms. I fold up the hems and tie the waist with some twine. A shirt and jumper of his over the top should do. I've got some trainers in my size, which also suspiciously turned up when I needed to start training.

I tie my hair back and wait. This is the tricky part. It'll be stupid to go hide in the car now, because he'll check on me before he leaves.

He does just that. I hear the quiet snick of his door, hear his light footsteps inch towards mine. My breathing is deep and even, something I've been focusing on for a while. He waits, listening intently, and I add a very light snore. Satisfied, his footsteps retreat. Not to his bedroom, but down the corridor.

Now why it's tricky; I've got to get to the car before he does. Thankfully, I've got a plan.

I rush to my window and inch it upwards. I can hear him, faintly, pottering around the kitchen. I've got a couple of minutes, tops.

Hooking one leg over the ledge, and then the other, I balance as best I can and then, training my mind hard on the open air before me - I drop.

But not to the floor. I splay my hands, my breath whooshing out of me, and just like that, I'm suspended, hovering, outside the window.

Sometimes, these abilities fucking rock.

I turn and slide the window closed. Then, hands still splayed, I focus on lowering myself gently to the floor. I'm not sure I could fly, maybe years down the line, but at the moment? Hovering will do fine.

It takes only twenty seconds to get round the back of the cabin and into the darkness beneath it. I need a small flicker of fire to get me to the car. I try to lift only the piece of tarpaulin that I need; I don't want to disturb it too much, because he might notice. I reach for the handle and give it a tug. I know it will be open, because I opened it a few days ago. Found the keys while he was on a morning jog, wedged under his mattress.

I flick the central locking back on, to be safe. A normal person wouldn't remember locking the car after it's sat unused for so long, but Bucky is Bucky. He'd know.

Stowing into the backseat, I wedge myself onto the space behind the front seats. My head behind the passenger seat, in case he winches the drivers seat back and crushes my chest. For the final touch; a blanket over my body. Even if he does throw something in or glances back, hopefully the dark and the blanket will be enough to conceal me.

Not a moment too soon am I securely in place, because I hear his boots crunching over the dry dirt towards the car. He's not carrying a flashlight, thank god, the one thing I didn't plan for. The tarpaulin gets yanked back in a flurry, and then he fills up the car with fuel. Still, I'm concealed. He opens the boot for something, and without much more hassle, drops into the driver's seat.

The engine is a quiet purr, no wonder it never woke me.

It takes a lot of twisting and turning and a lot of low cursing from Bucky to manoeuvre the car through the woods. I've not been able to figure out a clear path through the trees, but Bucky must have it memorised. Still, it's a bumpy ride. I've got to keep quiet and still, which proves horrendously difficult.

And then, blissfully, after a long ass time, we hit normal road. And then? We're on our way to civilisation, and I'm on my way to having my ass absolutely handed to me by one mad as hell assassin.


	10. The Alley.

I'm not entirely sure how best to break the news to him that I'm currently hiding in the backseat. 

If I pop up and announce my presence, the prospect of his terrified face seems like a win. However, I'm pretty sure his immediate reaction would be to fucking deck me. So... That  _doesn't_ seem like something I'd love to experience.

We've been driving for at least an hour and a half. If I announced myself now, would he go to the trouble of taking me home? Probably. It's something he would do. Waiting until we've come to a stop is the better option. He'll be less likely to haul us back to the cabin.

But damn, it's getting uncomfortable back here. My hip hurts and ribs hurt and my skull throbs where it keeps knocking against the door.

Bucky's got the radio on, and I focus on the tinny music rasping through the speakers. I've not heard music for a good long while, and it feels like a inhaling the first breath of spring. It shudders through my whole body. I wonder what my favourite band was, before, or what kind of music I was into. Some of the songs echo louder in my chest than others. Some of them delve all the way to my stomach and make the hair on my arms stand tall.

He sings along occasionally, humming to the tune or repeating the chorus after it's belted out. He taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. He likes the pop songs better than any others. Dork.

The car slows around me. Steadies at the slower speed. Perhaps now we're not on any back roads, and instead we've entered civilisation.

Another half hour of this slower driving. I count the minutes in sets of ten in the back of my mind. Try to practice my argument for going with him while I wait.

Finally, the car slows even more, shuddering. I'm hyperventilating a little. He's going to be so fucking mad. I don't even want to see the fury on his face. He'll turn the car right around and fly us straight home. At least I'll be able to look out the window on the way back.

After a couple of minutes, the car comes to a smooth stop. The engine goes quiet. My heart taps a frightened beat against my rib cage. I'm sweating. There's nothing else to do but reveal myself and face his fury. Face him, confess, beg to come along.

He's just sat there, breathing, not leaving.

Okay. Here goes. I just need to sit up. Sit up and say hello and deal with the argument. Okay... Now. No, couldn't do it. Okay.  _Now_. Nope. Fuck.

"You take your time." His voice is a quiet, furious snarl.

Is he... Talking to me? I go still as stone.

He moves, and the car rocks with him as he wrenches around violently. A hand, solid and unyielding, seizes my bicep and wrenches me out from my space. I yelp at the sharp yank, but don't resist as he hauls me straight up and shoves me onto the back seat.

Releasing me, he twists back round and takes hold of the steering wheel. It groans in his hands, but he doesn't let up on his grip.

He is... Very angry. Too angry to look at me or talk to me.

It hurts worse than I thought it would.

"You knew I was there the whole time?" My voice is quiet, but not meek.

"Course I did, you fucking moron. I can hear your heartbeat." He snaps, stares straight ahead. His hair is down, acting as a dark veil between us so I can't see his face. What I can see of his jaw is clenched tight.

"So why didn't you drag me out of the car before we left?"

"Because I assumed the noise was coming from your fucking bed. I didn't know it was coming from the goddamn car. I was so focused on getting to the road that I didn't even notice I could still hear your heart. And then I assumed it was just an echo; a memory of a noise I'm constantly hearing. Then your stupid fucking head smacked against the door, and I thought, there's no way she's that much of an idiot. When I realised you were actually there, I was too mad to stop. Too mad to talk to you, so I just kept driving."

"Could have told me." I grumble, "It was uncomfortable."

"No more than you deserve." He twists around to growl, and the low rumble of his voice sends me flinching back into the seat. "I can't believe you. I can't  _believe_  you would do this!"

"What did you expect, Bucky?" I shout, throwing up my hands. Finally too annoyed to heed the warning in his face. "What did you honestly expect from me?"

"I expected you to be smarter!" He hollers. He's looking at me straight on now. "After everything we've spoke about! After all I've told you about Hydra! I thought you understood the risks!"

"I do understand!" He scoffs and shakes his head. "I do! But I'm also a fucking human being, Bucky!"

"That's no excuse! Do you know how much danger you've put us in? Our lives are on the goddamn line, and you'll risk it all for five minutes in a change of scenery?!" It's a shout, and he slams his hand into the passenger seat so hard something inside it snaps. He slaps his hands against the steering wheel and thumps his head against it too. His big shoulders swell and shrink with the force of his breathing.

With a slow, calming breath, I reach for him. When my palm settles against his arm, he jerks it away.

I persist, rolling up onto my knees. The front seats are only low, and they've got no headrests. With little thought for the prospect of him shoving me away, I drape myself over his back. Wrap my arms loose around his neck and rest my chin on the base of bent neck. I breathe out my anger, forcing it out of my chest and into the world around me. I don't want to argue with him. I want him to understand.

"For five minutes of freedom, Bucky Barnes, I would do anything."

It's the right thing to say. His hands go slack on the wheel. His metal one lets go entirely in favour of clasping my hands, joined together over his heart. His shoulders heave, lifting me and then dropping me.

"Dammit." He curses quietly under his breath.

He tugs on my wrist and then my arm. I comply with his silent request, scrambling between the seats and into the front of the car. But as I turn to claim the passenger seat, Bucky wraps an arm around my waist and gathers me in his lap instead. Braced between his torso and the steering wheel, it's snug but not uncomfortable. His thighs are more than sufficient for a seat, and his arms support me in a strong grip.

His forehead settles on my exposed shoulder. He breathes me in. Smells my hair. Huffs irritably.

"You're such a pain in my ass, you know that?" He grumbles, but the anger has faded.

"You know I can't apologise for it." I mutter, smoothing at the metal forearm in my lap. I know he can feel it.

"Prick."

"Asshole."

"What do you want, sweetheart? Huh? What actually is it you want from me?" His eyes, bright in the gloom of the car, glisten when he looks up from my shoulder.

"I want to walk outside and see other human beings. I want underwear in my size and I want new books. I want a pack of cards and some fattening foods that you eat just for the taste."

"And from me?" His eyebrows inch upwards.

"I want you there every single second."

His eyes show immense relief at the news and some of the tension leaks out of him. With a slow nod, he bites his lip and contemplates things. "You do not leave my side. We do not draw attention to ourselves. You do not argue with me. If I say we're going, we drop everything and we go. Okay?"

"Okay."

"All right then." He pats my thigh, signalling that I can move. But-

"So... You're not dragging me home?" I'm a bit confused.

"Do you  _want_  me to?" A dark eyebrow rises.

"No! No." I shrug, trying to calm myself and my wildly thrumming heart. But my happiness at this turn of events wells up in me like a great wave, and it drowns me under it's momentous weight. I can't stop myself, and wouldn't even if I wanted to. I chuck my arms around his neck and yank my body flush with his, crushing us together. He chuckles as he wraps his arms around my back. I twist to press my lips against his cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. Messy, ridiculous kisses. I'm laughing, half-crying with relief.

Pulling back with my hands still braced on his shoulders, I give him a bright, excited smile. He seems floored with my behaviour, a little misty-eyed with confusion.

"Thank you, Bucky." I murmur, genuinely grateful.

"Welcome." He nods, grinning back faintly, still a little dumbfounded.

I slide off his lap and into the passenger seat. Grip the handle. Glance at him.

"Ready?" He asks, smirking as I bounce in my seat.

We shove the doors open at the same time.

***

"Absolutely goddamn not." He snatches the yellow jumper from my hands.

"But why?" I hiss, outraged.

"Because it's  _awful_." He shoves it back onto the rack and picks out a black one. "How about this?"

"All right, Mr Edgy, still in our goth stage, are we? I want the yellow one." I shove his black one out from under my nose and make a grab for my original choice. We're in the clothing department of a 24 hour supermarket. We can't stay for long, so I've got to choose my lot out of the selection available.

"It's mustard, which is worse." Bucky's looking at my jumper like it's growing mould, which only makes me like it more. Plus, I need warmer clothes; the weather is going to get worse, and I don't run as hot as he does. "Please get something more... Incognito."

"All the rest of them are  _incognito_." I wave to the trolley of plain clothes and neutral colours. "Let me get one happy colour."

"Happy colour." He grumbles under his breath. "At least get your actual size, that one will be massive on you."

"No." I pull a face, "Think of how adorable I'm going to look."

"You always look adorable." He rolls his eyes, and then glances down at me to check if I heard. I did, and I'm staring at him, but he coughs and moves on. I trail behind, pushing the trolley, smirking at his broad back.

"Socks. I need socks." I say once I've caught up with his long strides.

"I didn't bring enough money for a whole new wardrobe, sweetheart." He sighs, in a long-suffering sort of way. "If I knew you were going to play stowaway, I'd have budgeted for it."

"If I knew you'd had a car, we could have gotten winter clothes weeks ago." I grouch back.

"If you knew we had a car," He glares down at me, "You'd have attempted at least one thievery."

I purse my lips. "True."

He looks away with a smirk. "Come on, we've got lots of other stuff to get."

The trip round the empty supermarket is actually pretty fun. Bucky has a list, and I have a few wants of my own, and he's not happy about me arguing with him. He grouches and groans and rolls his eyes, but everything I request is added to the pile. In fact... Bucky Barnes is a bit of a pushover. I'm pleased with the knowledge, but I promise myself not to take advantage of this character flaw. Still, he doesn't seem to mind. I get a little happier with every item added and he has a harder job hiding his smile.

"You know, I'm thinking you might be British." He says it while searching for the nutritional value of a box of doughnuts I'm prodding him for.

"What now?" My eyebrows squeeze together.

"Your accent is pretty neutral, but it's not American." He's still peering at the box. Avoiding my eyes. "But you use British language. Like jumper." He pokes at the mustard monstrosity he detests. "I'd call it a sweater. And this." He wiggles the trolley. "I'd call it a cart."

"Huh." I'm at a loss for words. British. It seems... Like it fits. It's a clunky, messy concept in my brain, but it swirls about smoothly. It is another broken fragment to add to the pile. I glance up to inform him excitedly, but he's not looking. "Fucking hell, man!" I exclaim, making him jump. "There is no healthiness in them! Put them in the pissing trolley."

He dumps the doughnuts in with a scowl. We move on.

"I've just gotta run and get something." Bucky says in a low voice. I'm inspecting the cereal options. "Don't move, please."

I go still, freezing in place, hand halfway to the shelf to pick up a box. He gives me a shove, calls me a prick, and strolls off up the aisle.

Grinning, I turn back to this very important decision. I wonder what he's forgotten, not like him to miss something. Still, better to hurry up. He'll be back in thirty seconds. I pick a healthier option, just to take a load off his blood pressure. I add it to the full trolley.

"Hey there."

My head snaps round and I jerk back automatically. Heart pounding at the surprise, I turn towards the voice without thinking.

It's a young man. He's clean shaven and blonde, with tanned skin and dark eyes. He's wearing a cheerful smile and unassuming clothes. But he's got his hands on the end of the trolley, fingers woven through the bars. Stopping me from rolling it away without struggling to yank it free.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." He has a thick accent. Russian? Something along those lines.

"That's all right." I nod without a smile.

"Do you need help finding anything?" He still looks cheerful, but his hands tighten on the trolley. 

"Think I'm fine." I wave my hand to the full pile.

He doesn't glance down to look. "You don't seem like you're from here. A tourist, perhaps?"

I purse my lips, narrow my eyes. "Something like that."

"Where are you staying? In the town? I know the area pretty well, if you need help getting home." The smile hasn't moved, but it's starting to look strained. Like it hurts to hold in place. His knuckles are white.

"I got here fine." I tell him coldly, dropping the customary politeness. "I reckon I can manage getting out."

"Well," He shrugs innocently, "It's the middle of the night. A woman alone in a foreign place..." He shakes his head, tuts. "Who knows what could happen?"

"Yes. Who knows what could happen." My palms are itching. My skin prickles. Not with fear, with fury. I don't have to deal with dipshits like this anymore. Not when I've got a raging inferno running through my veins.

"Where are you staying?" He asks again, his tone is still light, like he's making a joke. "I'm not a predator, I promise." He chuckles, "Just a nice guy looking out for you ladies."

"Thanks. From all of us." I snap, and jerk the bar to get the trolley moving. He stops it with a flex of his forearms, jutting a foot under one wheel to pin it in place.

"Let me at least walk you to your car." He's simpering, like I'm being the asshole. Like it was rude of me to try to leave. My blood boils a little hotter.

"Get out of my way."

"You're being kind of a bitch." He says it in an upbeat way, but his eyes have gone flat and cold. "I'm just trying to do you a favour."

"So do me one, and fuck off." I give a push on the trolley which rattles his arms and slams against his foot.

"Listen here, you little-" He starts to snap, but it's become too much.

I'm too furious. The lightning rushes out of my hands. But I've got enough presence of mind to wrangle it in as it thunders outwards, hauling some of it back as it rushes for him. But not all of it can be stopped, and he lets out a shout as the electric shock hits his fingers. He yanks himself back, away, startled at the power. Not the average zap you get from trolleys. I don't doubt that it stings.

My smile is hostile, and I start to roll the trolley passed. He sticks his body in the way of it again, and I'm half a beat away from throwing a fireball at his fucking face.

He opens his mouth, face twisted nastily, eyes icy-

A heavy arm drops around my shoulders. The warmth of him is instantaneous, his solid presence a welcome pressure at my side.

"Finish what you were saying." Bucky offers, but his voice is flat and tight with violence. I can't see his face, but the man's paling cheeks are enough to know he does not look friendly.

I cross my arms over my chest, lift my eyebrows. We both wait for the spluttering man to speak.

"Who are you?" The man asks with a strained, high-pitched voice.

"I'm her husband." Bucky's voice is a growl, his arm possessive around my shoulders. A pang goes through me at the word, and I try to keep the surprise from my face. Husband? Pardon?

"We were only chatting." The man tries to shrug, tries to save himself. Bucky's expression must twist, because the man rocks back on his heels, tipping towards freedom.

"Sure you were." Bucky scoffs, "Well, conversations over. Bye."

He turns on his heel, starts to skulk off without making eye contact or glancing back. "Moody bitch isn't worth my time anyway." The mutter is loud enough that even I hear it.

Bucky moves before I can get a grip on his jacket. I hiss in warning, urging him to leave it be. But he's already got his hand round the man's arm, wrenching him to a sharp stop. Wearing a furious scowl and leaning into the man's space. I forget how strong he is, how powerful they made him. I forget he was an assassin, capable of so much more than what he shows me. I see it now, in his flat, murderous eyes and his hard mouth. The still, precise movements of his body.

He's a work of art.

"Apologise." He snarls the words.

The man quails under Bucky's fury. Trembles in his grip. He doesn't even think to struggle. He can't force the words out though, mouth twisting mutinously as he turns his dark gaze on me.

Bucky senses his reluctance. Simply squeezes harder on the arm he's holding.

"Apologise to my woman." He orders.

Fucking lord, I don't mean to find it enthralling, but I genuinely can't help myself. It's nice to have someone defend you. To get angry on your behalf.

"Jesus, sorry!" The man exclaims, wriggling like a caught fish. "My apologies, all right?"

Bucky keeps him caught for a moment more, punishment for his rudeness. Smirks in a cold way. "Good, now fuck off. Before she kicks your ass and I do absolutely nothing to stop her."

He goes pretty damn quick, scurrying off down the aisle without a backward glance. Bucky doesn't watch him go, but turns to me immediately and catches my shoulders. Peers into my face with concern. His face has changed, from furious to kind, from harsh to gentle. His brows lift in question.

"You okay, love?" He asks urgently.

I give him a quiet smile. "Fine. Thank you."

He straightens, rubs comfort into my shoulders. He's still frowning. "You were handling it. I'm glad you didn't burn a hole in his chest though, that's progress."

Wincing, I tap a finger against his chest. "Still sorry for that."

Bucky scoffs, rolls his eyes, lowers his head to press his lips against my hair. "You're still forgiven for that. Come on. Lets get this lot payed for."

He claims the trolley and starts down the aisle. I keep pace, linking my arm through his metal elbow so he doesn't stride ahead of me. But there's something prickling at my mind, and I can't help opening my mouth. As always.

"Buck?"

He hums in reply, eyes still scanning shelves in case he spies something useful.

"Husband and wife, are we?"

I expect his reaction, and it's as amusing as I thought it would be. His head whips round so hard I'm sure something must snap. His cheeks flush pink, and he splutters with a reply. His hands tighten on the handlebar.

"Well, you know." He shrugs, hunching his big shoulders. He's not looking at me. "It was easier to say that."

"Easier than what?"

"Than... Explaining anything else."

"Easier than say, being related?" I ask, innocently. He grimaces immediately.

"Why would I say that?" He's struggling. Voice messy, eyes going everywhere but to my face. To my smirking mouth.

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because that would be, well, like, weird?" He tests the word, wincing around it.

"Why would it be weird?" I'm goading him. He's so thrown by the conversation he doesn't hear the laughter in my voice.

"It's not- I mean, it  _would_  be, but I just-" His hair flies onto his cheeks as he shakes his head. "I just? Don't think of you... Like that?"

"How do you think of me?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I don't want to have this conversation. I don't want to hear him tell me he thinks of me as a friend, a good friend. That he cares for me but doesn't  _feel_  for me. I don't want him to look at me and question if I've grown feelings for him.

Which I  _haven't._

He's not shocked by the question though. His eyes are pointed at the ground, nodding like he's thinking hard.

"I think of you as more." He says it decisively. He believes in this answer. He's picked it carefully, diplomatically. Not saying too much, not saying enough.

"More?" I'm befuddled.

"Yes."

He peeks at me, hesitantly judging the expression on my face. I'm not sure what sort of answer he finds, but he responds with a fragile smile and a squeeze of my shoulders. Despite the metal that squeezes me, it's a gentle hold. He's slow to let go, but we come to a till with a miserable middle-aged man. He's the only cashier available at this hour, and he's annoyed that we've arrived and interrupted his glum thoughts.

With a shared grin, we start to feed our groceries through the till, in preparation for going home.

***

"Why'd you disappear in the shop?" I ask, huffing under the weight of the bag I'm lifting from the trolley.

Bucky plucks it off me without any sign of strain. "Something I forgot."

"Oh? What was it?" I hand him another bag, which he arranges in the boot. The car park is almost empty save for a couple of solitary vehicles. The space is poorly lit and the air is cold, numbing my fingertips and ghosting over my cheeks.

"I'll show you when we get home." He says, distractedly. "I packed it in one of the bags."

Shrugging it off, I snag the trolley and start wheeling it back to where we'd found it. To a distant corner of the car park, one lone light above the little hut that serves as it's home. The supermarket is part of what seems to be the high street. Sandwiched between other warehouse sized-buildings belonging to a restaurant and the library. Only one other building is lit up and open; a tiny cafe across the street.

I walk across the damp gravel, towards the flickering light. The trolley shakes and rattles under my hands, causing a racket I'm sure Bucky tracks. Depositing the trolley in the dark space of the hut, I turn. Spy Bucky sliding into the car, door still open to wait for me. He's not looking.

Nor am I. Not watching the darkness, the tangled shadows. I stand in my circle of yellow light and think myself safe. Because there's a super-soldier assassin nearby, who thinks of me as  _more._

Bucky is not the only assassin nearby. My first mistake is assuming that.

My second mistake is freezing in terror when the quiet crunch of feet on gravel approaches, a step behind.

A gasp escapes me as a forearm, hard as rock, encircles my throat. It is soon silenced as the arm yanks, and I'm thrown off-balance and dragged backwards.

I kick and wrestle, but my weight is easily lifted and my voice easily stolen.

My little circle of yellow light grows distant and the darkness presses in tighter. I'm hauled into an alley, dirty, dank, full of rubbish.

Please don't let this be where I die.

My heartbeat is slamming against my rib cage so hard I'm afraid the bone might splinter. Real fear, I haven't tasted it in a while. Not for months. It tastes as foul as it did back then, strapped to that table.

"We've been looking for you." A voice grunts in my ear. Hot breath on my neck. "Imagine the glory when I hand you in."

Sweat slicks down my spine. The arm tightens, making me gasp for breath. My assailant is male; the flat chest at my back informs me of this fact.

"And they said you were dangerous." A small chuckle.

A shadow, bigger, broader than the ones I'm submerged in.

"Let her go." The voice frightens me more than the arm around my neck does. It isn't the Bucky that I know.

The Winter Soldier arrives in the alley, and steals any warmth right out of the air around us.

I can't see his face, which makes him all the more threatening. He is still as death, coiled tight to attack. Like a wolf in the moment before it lunges for the throat. Waiting, watching, for a weakness.

"Hydra has been looking for the both of you." I'm jerked further back. A reflex no doubt, creating space between us and the death-drenched figure opposite.

"And you're going to hand us in?" Bucky's voice is a cruel bark.

"I'm betting there's not much you wouldn't do to protect this monster." He gives me a rough shake, and Bucky takes an involuntary step forward, metal hand rising. His chuckle rumbles through my spine. "That's what I thought."

"Get your fucking hands off her." Bucky snarls, taking another big step forward.

"Ah ah." Something cold is pressed hard into my ribs. I wince, flinching away, but he just digs it in harder. "Come closer and I'll shoot her. We weren't told much about the two of you, but they didn't tell me she was bulletproof."

Bucky stops. I still can't see his face. I can tell only that he is tense, alert, ready for anything.

I can't speak to him. I can't see his face. There's no way to ask for a way out and no way to know if he has a plan.

So I can't wait for Bucky to save me. Shouldn't have waited this long in the first place. I'm not helpless anymore. Never really was. I don't need to wait for an assassin; not when there's a monster prowling in my chest, snarling for vengeance.

I can't build up, not like I normally do. I need one sharp surge of power.

There is no warning. No real sign of danger.

There is only the tang of singed metal in the air, a fleeting scent of fire and then - My hands light up.

Only a moment before the rest of my body does. It runs from my palms to my shoulders to my chest. From my feet to my knees to my stomach. The lightning rips through me, illuminating the whole alley in fierce, blinding light.

What happens to a person when they've got their arms wrapped round a fork of lightning?

The same thing that happens to everything else.

He tries to let go, instinctively. I hear his breath rattle in his throat, hear his shock. But a spiral of frigid air keeps us locked together. Keeps his chest against my back and his hands around my chest.

He can't even scream.

I spin, slamming my elbow into his chest as I move. I shove the air and the body beneath it, and he sails backwards and skids, sickeningly, along the gravel. Through water and dirt and rubbish, he stops like a rag doll, arms and legs splayed, mouth and eyes open wide in shock.

He doesn't move.

I'm on the floor. On my knees. Breathing hard.

"Hey. Hey. Love? You okay? Look at me." Bucky's voice is a long way off, but I turn my head to look for him.

He's on his feet, close but keeping his distance. Is he disgusted with what I've done? His eyes are wide but not shocked, not fearful. Why is he so far away then?

"I can't pick you up if you're going to shock my ass."

Oh. That'll be why. I'm still covered in lightning. It still dances along my arms, up my thighs. I'm projecting a small halo of white light, making Bucky blink into the glow. It sizzles and snaps as it forks off my shoulders and knees and fingertips.

With a small, calming breath, I work on reeling it back. Drawing it in. Without much effort, it winks out of existence. Shadows rush in, and Bucky rushes with them. Catching my shoulders as soon as it's safe. Hauling me up, checking I'm all right. He checks my neck and pulls my shirt up to check my ribs. When the inspection is over, he drags me in and scoops me right off my feet.

Arms round my ribs, he holds me tight to his chest. My feet dangle over empty air. I rest my head on his shoulder and breathe in his smell. Cotton and lemons and sweat. I wrap my arms around his neck and let him hold me.

"I killed him." I whisper into his hair. Release the confession into the crook of his neck, where he cannot see my face.

"Yeah." He confirms. "If you hadn't, I would have."

The news doesn't shock me, but it doesn't make me feel better either. I took a life. I did it with the powers Hydra gave me. I've done exactly what they intended, what they hoped I would do. How does it make it different? Killing for them or killing for me?

"Hey." Bucky puts me down, pulls back. Smooths the damp hair off my cheeks, squeezes my shoulders. "He would have killed you. He'd have taken you back to them. You did what had to be done."

"I still did it." I'm frowning towards the heap of clothes and bent limbs. The pale face twisted towards me. Looking at me. Judging me.

It's the blond guy from the supermarket.

"Let's get you out of here." Bucky sighs, and twists me towards freedom and fresh air. "Everything is going to be fine."

I wish I could believe him. But as his heavy arm drops around my shoulders and his blistering warmth envelopes my body... I almost believe it could be possible. 


	11. The Team.

"More hot chocolate, honey?"

I glance up and try not to flinch from the friendly female voice.

She's a younger woman with dark hair, dark skin and kind amber eyes. She's smiling, reaching for the cold cup in my hands. I relinquish my hold on it, offering a small smile. Her name says Roxy.

"Yes, thank you."

"No problem." She takes it and potters off. Towards the counter she's been cleaning methodically for the past ten minutes.

I'm in the cafe across from the parking lot. It's an old, shabby place, with no other customers at this kind of hour. It's about three in the morning. Bucky's gone - getting rid of the body and trying to track the agent's path through the small town. Searching for his home. Bucky might be able to find some sign of Hydra's knowledge of us.

"Here you go, hon." She slides a fresh cup towards me, smiling still. She seems nice.

"Hey um," I bite my lip, wondering how safe it might be. "Where are you from?"

She glances around the cafe, shrugs, and slides onto the bench opposite. "I got some time." She grins, drums painted nails on the worn table. "I'm originally from New York."

"And you ended up... Here?" Of course, I don't know where  _here_ is.

She laughs though. "I know. Small town in the middle of nowhere, on the way to everywhere. I like it though."

"It seems nice." I nod politely, "Where  _exactly_ , in the middle of nowhere?"

Her perfectly filled-in eyebrows inch upwards, "Columbia?"

"Which is... Where, exactly?" God, what a moron.

Now her eyes narrow. "Canada?" Holy shit. "Listen, doll, you're not being like, sex-trafficked, are you?"

I splutter on a mouthful of hot liquid. She chortles as I struggle, but I manage to keep it off her clean table-top. "No! God, no. Definitely not."

"Kidnapped?" She guesses again, but she's smiling.

How fucked up is it that this is the question I have to lie about? She thinks it's in the realm of complete impossibility. I envy her for thinking it.

"No." I shrug, grin. "Of course not. We've been travelling for a long time. I get mixed up here and there. I usually do the sleeping and my um... Partner does the driving."

"Partner, huh?" She leans forward, a gleam in her eye. Like people are listening and we're plotting something. "He seems... Big."

I can't help but laugh. "Yeah, he's big. Huge. You should see him with his shirt off."

"I'm definitely wishing I could." She flicks her eyes around, leans forward, wiggles her eyebrows. "Is he, like, huge... Everywhere?"

I reel back, cheeks flushing immediately. "I dunno! He's, well, we're... We're not like? Partners in that way." I'm stuttering, embarrassed.

"For real?" She's frowning. "Oh. It seemed like you were. Maybe you should think about jumping on that train."

As if I damn well  _haven't_  thought about it. Her grin stretches as the thought must play out on my face.

I shake my head. "We've both got a lot going on. It'd be complicated."

"So you're not into him?" She asks.

I shrug.

"So you'd be cool with me slipping him my number?"

I whip round to look at her so fast I crick my neck. "Pardon?" My voice is a high-pitched squeak.

She's laughing already. "That's what I thought."

A knock on the window makes us both jump, and I look round to find Bucky stood there, grinning at our reaction. He aims for the door.

Roxy reaches over the table, pats both my hands with one of hers. "Doesn't look complicated to me, darling."

"What's complicated?" Bucky asks as he arrives, eyebrows high, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "You all right, love?"

I flush scarlet and look away.

She stands, vacating the seat for Bucky, smiling between the two of us. "Just girl things." She pats his shoulder on the way past. "You two enjoy your travelling. You need anything let me know."

Bucky slides onto the bench she occupied. "Girl things?" He looks apprehensive, a little lost at the notion.

Rolling my eyes, I save him. "Don't worry about it, she was just being nice. What happened with you?"

"I'll tell you in the car." He nods to my hands, "Finish your hot chocolate though."

I chuck it back, wincing at the heat. "Done."

Snorting, he stands, waiting for me to catch up. I return my cup to Roxy, who smiles when Bucky waves off the total of change he's due.

"Keep it." He insists, hand on my lower back and aiming for the door.

"Thank you." I smile at her.

"Welcome, doll." She glances between the two of us, and her eyes gleam wickedly. "You guys are a really lovely couple. You suit each other."

My mouth drops open. Bucky stiffens beside me and I glance up to watch the pink rush into his cheeks.

I manhandle him out of the cafe as he tries to splutter a reply. When I glance back, Roxy is laughing at our predicament.

"I did  _not_  tell her we were a couple." I assure him hastily as we cross the street.

He shrugs, looking a little miffed but amused too. "You didn't?"

"No!"

"Just seems weird that she'd bring it up after you spoke to her." He shrugs.

"I didn't say we were a couple." I growl, embarrassed. "I told her we weren't a couple. I specifically said  _weren't_."

"So she ignored you and assumed we were anyway?" He raises his eyebrows, purses his lips. "Seems weird. Seems a little... Far-fetched."

"James Buchanan Barnes," I round on him fiercely, "I did not tell a total fucking stranger-"

"I'm just saying it's a little  _odd_ -"

"Why would I announce-"

"It's okay if you did-"

"But I didn't!" I yell, and only then notice his laughing eyes and shit-eating grin. I punch him in the chest and stomp passed. "Piss off, stupid metal dipshit."

"Listen, I know I'm hard not to talk about." He catches up easily and wraps an arm around my neck, throwing me off balance. I struggle out from under him, shoving at his side. He holds on. "I bet she was impressed. I understand you'd want to appear cooler."

"If I wanted to seem cool I wouldn't have let anyone know that I know  _you_." I snap, and smack his arm off me.

"Oh, burn." He chuckles.

We're at the car, and we slide into our separate sides. He's still laughing.

"I will literally set this whole car on fire." I warn.

"All right, all right." He shakes his head and fishes in his jacket for the keys. "Listen though, seriously, next time let me know if there's anything I can do to sell the story. Like you need some affectionate displays? I'm your man."

I flick my wrist, and a bright, burning ball of fire appears in my palm.

Bucky starts driving.

****

I expect him to start speaking as soon as we leave the tiny town in the rear-view mirror. But he lets the silence stretch on, interrupted only by the low growl of the car beneath us. He doesn't even switch the radio on, content with the quiet.

I don't want to talk about the man in the alley. The Hydra agent. I don't want to know who he was or where he came from or what his home looked like. I want no knowledge of his life, because I ended it. I didn't even stop to think of right and wrong, or consider that he was a person. A real person with a real life. And I ended it all.

When panic skips through my system, cutting my breath short and driving my heartbeat high, Bucky senses it.

He reaches for me, missing my hands but finding my thigh. Gives it a squeeze with his warm fingers. He doesn't bother saying anything. Doesn't need to, really. I catch him before he withdraws. Press my legs together to trap his fingers and folding my palms around his wrist. He accepts the hold without comment, though I'm sure I see a hint of pink beneath that beard.

He only lets go when he needs to change gear. He stays in a high gear so he can hold on longer. I release him and welcome him back whenever he has to let go.

The landscape slips past our windows. First the small flecks of civilisation. Two more tiny towns and a couple of lonesome properties. Then, of course, the forest takes over, and it is just ancient, unchanging wilderness. Any other time of year I bet the picture is breath-taking, but the trees are barren and the colours harsh. It seems more like the tangled wall of thorns from the fairy tales.

The only time there is noise other than the car is when Bucky asks "Warm enough?" and flicks on the heating even though I nod to say that I am.

Even when we arrive at the cabin - after a bumpy journey through the trees - we collect the supplies in silence and trudge up to the porch wrapped in it too. The cabin is toasty warm, due to the fire still burning, and I'm glad to be out from the chill.

"Why don't you go change?" Bucky suggests. He's carrying three times as many bags as I am, and he's not even struggling.

I dump my burden on the island, and Bucky slides over my very own bag, filled with my very own belongings.

"I can help." I start to pluck at a few of the bags.

Bucky slaps a metal hand over both of mine, narrowing his eyes. "There's a system."

I roll my eyes so hard it actually hurts my brain. "Course there is." Freeing my hands, I yank my bag into my arms and leave with a screwed up face for him.

The bundle of new belongings is a pleasant weight in my arms. I fold each and every item lovingly in my chest of drawers, neatly arranging each piece. I'm impressed with how they fill the space of the one drawer I've packed them into.

I'm sure I can buy more next time.

I leave one item out on the bed. Pull it on once I've stripped down. Despite the bright colour and the feather-soft material, it doesn't brighten my spirits.

There's no doubt in my mind that Bucky will want to talk about what happened. Is he disappointed that I killed that man? I can't imagine that he is. If I hadn't done it, Bucky would have. I'd rather have it on my conscience than weighing down his. Heaven know's his is heavy enough already. I wouldn't add extra weight to it, not for my sake.

A knock at the door startles me, only then do I realise I'm curled in the rocking chair near the empty fire.

"Love?" His voice is low, hesitant. His eyebrows crease when he catches sight of me. "You all right?"

I sniff wetly, and he winces.

"Guess not." An offering of a weak smile, which does not reach his stormy eyes. He inches his broad body into the room like I've told him he's not welcome, approaching warily. Pausing only to knock the door too with his heel. Folding his long limbs into a position at my feet, sitting cross-legged on the tatty rug. He's watching me, inspecting me.

The big hoodie he wore out is gone, and his arms and shoulders are exposed by the shirt he's wearing. When a chill finds it's way down the chimney, it brushes the golden skin of his bicep and stands the hair there on end.

With a flick of my fingers and the lightest push of will, the wood in the grate explodes into flame.

His body flinches from the noise and the heat. Admittedly, they jump out further than I expected them to. But I contain it immediately, smoothing them back into their rightful place. Bucky calms when he sees the control, relaxing towards the warmth.

"Efficient." He shakes his head, smiling. Of course, the warm glow of the fire only throws my outfit into sharper focus. His expression darkens. "You look like a fucking sunflower." It's a snort.

"What's wrong with that?" I scowl, rubbing at my nose. "Don't be a grouch, old man."

He grins, taking no offence. Then of course, his expression grows sombre. He reaches out a silver hand to brush my knee. Slides his fingers down to my shin. Stroking slow, strong circles into my flesh.

"We don't have to talk about it." He shrugs, and he's not referring to the yellow monstrosity falling off my shoulders. "If you don't want to."

I suppose, if I'm honest, I deserve to know more about that man. I deserve to feel guilty.

"If you hadn't killed him, I would have." Bucky's voice is fierce, his eyes unyielding. There is no compromise within that stormy grey. "He was Hydra. If he'd been in those labs, he'd have gladly tortured you along with the rest."

"Rationally, I know that." I sniff again, fighting the tears pushing up my throat. "But... He was a man, with a life and home and everything else. I took that away."

He nods, looking thoughtful. "The first time is always the hardest."

"Is it?"

He looks away, towards the window. Searches the trees beyond for the answer to my dull question. I'm full to the brim with dread. There is so much misery in his gaze, I know his answer isn't going to be cheerful.

"It never gets easier." He shakes his head, knocking his dark hair onto his cheeks. "Not after ten people, or twenty or thirty. No matter how awful they are, or whether they're the enemy you've been ordered to fight. The guilt never goes away and you never forget their faces. But... Sweetheart," he gives me a sad smile. "Bad people don't care about shit like that. That Hydra agent was gonna kill you with a smile on his face. Evil people don't care about being evil."

"You..." I squint my eyes at him. "That was deep."

His lips quirk up on one side, and he huffs out an exasperated laugh. "You're so good at ruining moments."

"I didn't know we were having one." I can feel the sly smile stretching my lips.

His cheeks bloom pink, like the first sign of spring after a harsh winter. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?" I send my eyebrows skywards.

"I-..." He huffs, shakes his head, quints at the fire. "I didn't mean nothing by it."

My playfulness slips away. My smile fades. I look away. "No. You never do."

I didn't actually mean to say anything out loud, I certainly didn't mean to sound so bitter about the fact. But it's out now, and Bucky tenses at the words. His frown deepens. I can only flick my gaze towards him, I cannot focus like I want to. Can't say anything or back-peddle, like I should.

"You-" His voice is rough, a little strained. "Do you want me-"

I'm sure he was meant to add something to the end of the sentence, but it catches in his throat. Of course, the question he has left in the space between us is impossible to answer. Not because I don't know the answer. But because it's complicated. We're complicated. Because he doesn't want me and I don't deserve him anyway, so everything is irrelevant.

"Bucky-"

"Sweetheart-"

We stop to laugh a little. Look away. This is  _ridiculous_. We're adults. We should be able to speak about things like this. We should be able to have a simple conversation about - Well, I don't know what we're trying to talk about.

Sneaking a peak, I find his eyes already trained on me. I look away. His eyes are questioning, a little lost, a little panicked. I hope he doesn't think any differently of me. I don't want anything to change. I couldn't bare it.

"Love?"

His hand is on my knee again, but I still don't look at him. Maybe if I did, things would change. If I had an honest conversation with him, confessed a few things, maybe he'd understand. But instead my pride and my embarrassment sew my lips closed. I can't bare to lose him, so I stay silent, even when he squeezes my leg. An invitation. A prompt.

"Do..." His voice is a low murmur. I look back at him. He's staring at his hand on my leg. His metal thumb is rubbing absent circles into my thigh. I can't focus on anything other than that small point of pressure. When he looks up, his eyes snag me. They're fire and ice, fiery intensity and cold calm. My skin prickles. My stomach clenches.

"What?" My voice is pitched low too. Wobbly. Uncertain. Lost in a conversation in which we're saying absolutely nothing, and somehow too much.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His fingers slip away from my knee and instead slide under it. Brushing the delicate flesh. Grasping the back of my thigh. The gentle pressure makes my lungs ache.

This shouldn't be happening to me. This is so... Uneventful. He's just got his hand on my leg. I've slept with him in a bed. He's held me naked in the shower.

But... He's looking at me differently now.

My chest heaves, my fingers curl into my jumper, my cheeks flame bright as my hair.

He's watching me, head tilted, a small feline smile on his lips. Like - Like he enjoys watching me squirm. Watching me struggle above him.

Bastard.

"No." I say, and it's breathless. Pathetic. "No, I don't want to talk about it."

His eyebrows flick up. His hand inches higher, further up the back of my thigh. It's elevated by my other ankle tucked beneath my knee, so he's got easy access for his fingers.

"Okay." Bucky nods. Accepts the answer. His hand stops on my thigh, but he doesn't withdraw it. He is... So annoying.

"I'm going to bed." My voice is louder than I expect it to be.

In one swift motion, I stand. Bucky rocks back to avoid my legs as I skirt passed him. He turns as I turn, tracking my movements as I cross the room and throw my thick bed covers back. A glance shows me he's still sat on the floor, legs crossed, smiling faintly. Eyes bright with amusement, with knowing. Asshole.

Clambering onto the mattress, I yank the covers up to my chest. Turning a glare on him.

"Aren't you going to leave?"

He purses his lips. Grins wider still. "I don't think I will, no."

The super-serum in his blood propels him across the room in a flash. If I didn't know he'd rather die than hurt me, I'd have been frightened by that predatory lunge. In any case, I still jump. Still jerk back and away. By the time I've reacted, he's already under the covers. Flattening himself against the pillow. Tucking himself, smug, into the empty side of the bed.

"Excuse me!" I exclaim, scandalised.

"What?" He frowns. "Don't be a grouch. It's getting cold."

"You run hotter than any human being on Earth!"

"I'm doing this for  _your_  benefit." He's perfectly casual as he gets comfy, burrowing down into the mattress.

"I'm not cold!"

"You will be in the night when the fire goes out." A shrug. "Plus, you've been through a traumatic event. I'm here to provide company."

"The only traumatic event in my life is you!" I swing a pillow into his chest, and he takes the blow, but when I yank it back he just gives me a smirk. Un-phased. "Prick."

I fling myself around and face the wall. Huff as I bundle down. He's right, it  _is_  cold. So cold there might be a storm is on it's way. Or snow, at least. And of course... Bucky is so warm, it creeps across the bed to press against my back. There's so much of him, and he runs at such a high temperature. Unlike me; soon my fingers, knees and toes are chilly, even wrapped in my thick quilt and with the fire still high.

"You wanna snuggle?" He asks after a twenty minutes of pressing silence. There's laughter in his voice.

"Fuck you." I snap back.

"Come on, love," He nudges me in the spine. "The whole bed is shivering 'cause of you."

"I don't want your warmth. I'd rather freeze." I grumble.

"I can help with that too." He muses, "I am the  _Winter_  Soldier, after all."

A beat of silence where I process. "You are just... Such a loser."

He laughs hard enough that I'm jostled by the movement. "Fine then, stubborn ass."

That is my only warning, and really - knowing him - that should have been enough. In the next moment, my breath rushes out in a yelp as he drapes his massive body over me like some kind of muscly blanket. His cheek falls against mine. His metal arm captures my waist. He throws his heavy leg over my thigh and presses his firm chest against my shoulder blades.

He's pressed so much closer than necessary. Trying to be funny, and it  _is_  funny, but it's also making my stomach flip and my mouth run dry.

"How's that?" He says, wiggling to get comfortable. I don't have to look at him to know he's smirking.

"You're so insufferable." I growl. "You're lucky I don't set your ass on fire."

He only chuckles and squeezes me a bit tighter. In all fairness, he is like,  _really_  comfortable. You'd think all his muscles would make him too solid to lay on, but it's not the case. The sheer mass of him, the power in his limbs, makes it impossible to feel unsafe. Like nothing in the world could possibly harm you. Bucky is the epitome of safety, and his tight embrace is the height of comfort.

Even his metal arm is a welcome weight. The metal is not cold, and the ridges and plates so intricately designed that it's almost a smooth surface.

Without thinking, I run my finger over his forearm. Drawing little patterns. His voice makes me jump when he hums.

"That's nice." He says, and the sound rumbles against my back.

"You can feel that?" I withdraw my hand, embarrassed, but a squeeze of my torso lets me know I can continue.

"Mostly." His beard tickles my shoulder as he nods. "There's sensory equipment in there somewhere. Course, it's concentrated a lot in my hand, but there's a little pressure everywhere else."

"That's good."

"Hey, I, uh..." He clears his throat, starts again. "I like that you're not afraid of it."

Ah. We're not very good at being nice to each other. We're especially not good at seriousness.

"How could I be?" I murmur, and I'm infinitely glad we're not looking at each other. "It's part of you."

He grows still as stone for a long moment, and then pulls me - impossibly - more firmly into his chest. His chin nestles into the crook of my neck. I'm pleased with his reaction.

"Thank you." He says, and I know he means it. "And about that Hydra agent-"

"I know. Unavoidable. I shouldn't feel guilty." My voice is dull.

"Hey." He gives me a squeeze, "I didn't say that. I'd be more worried if you  _didn't_  feel guilty. But I do want you to know that he would have killed us both. He'd have given us both back to Hydra. Hell, he'd have tortured us without even blinking. He'd have made us torture each other, given the chance. Every single one of them has to be okay with shit like that. Feel guilty, sure, but don't think yourself a monster."

I'll be wrestling with this problem for the rest of my life, I reckon. What he's saying is true. They hurt us and tortured us and stole so much from us. I don't care if they suffer. I don't care if they die. I'm just not sure that I'm okay with being the one to kill them.

Bucky lets me stew for a while. His voice is hesitant when he speaks again. "Maybe... Later on, it would be a better idea for you to go somewhere quiet."

"That's not the plan." The plan is to fight. That's what I've been training for. What we've both been preparing for.

"Plans can change." He sighs, and it sends a chill across my nape. "Hydra should be destroyed, but you don't have to be the one to do it. Not if you don't want to. I want it to be your choice. If you want peace, I'll give that to you."

My chest tightens. My eyes throb. He is more kind than he realises.

"If I wanted that... Would you come with me?" It's a whisper, half lost to the shadows pooling in the corners of the room.

A measured beat.

"No."

I knew it was coming, but it still hurts.

"I can't forgive or forget, love. I can't let them get away with what they've done. I'm too angry to run." It's a quiet, unyielding reserve. One that I respect and admire, but don't think I share.

"Where would I even go?" I scoff, "You said yourself. Hydra are everywhere. There's no quiet place for someone like me."

"Well, that's what I wanted to tell you about that Hydra agent." Intrigued by the wary tone of his voice, I wiggle round to face him. He doesn't help my journey, not bothering to lift his arms or loosen his hold. We're almost nose to nose when I finally struggle into position. I slide my hands into the warm space between our chests.

"What about him?"

"He wasn't actively looking for us. He was posted in the town to monitor a local politician, hoping to bring her into the fold. The agent got lucky stumbling upon us. But his apartment did have a lot of stuff in it." His eyes are guarded, I wait, impatiently. "There's this team."

"Team?" I'm confused.

"While we were buried at that facility, some weird shit went down in New York." He's talking slowly like I'll freak out. "Involving... Aliens."

"Aliens?"

"Yeah."

"From outer space?"

"Yeah."

"They arrived in New York?"

"I think the general term used was  _'attacked'_  New York." He's squinting at me, judging whether or not I'm freaking out.

I'm definitely freaking out. "You're sure?"

"There were a fair few reports on it, yeah."

"And you read them all? Properly?"

"Obviously, sweetheart." He rolls his eyes, like my doubt is unreasonable.

I process this for a moment. Real aliens. Confirmed. They're really out there. I bet science-fiction fans went batshit.

"Okay, so what about a team?" I'm not sure where they come in.

"This team fought them and won the fucking battle. They're people like us; enhanced or special. A lot of the reports were pretty vague about their identities. I'm sure the government kept a stranglehold on that information in case foreign relations got tense. But these people are out there."

"And you want me to... What? Join this team?" I'm frowning at him.

"They're doing good." He shrugs, jostling me. "I gathered you'd be interested in that."

"And what if they lock us up too?" I demand, "You're a war criminal and I'm a fucking science experiment."

"That's harsh." He huffs with exasperation. "If aliens are arriving from space, I'm sure they'll welcome your help."

"This is a ridiculous conversation." I shake my head. Joining a stupid team. A superhero team, no less. It's the biggest bunch of bullshit I've ever heard. I might be reluctant to straight up murder someone, but that doesn't mean I want to march around with a group of happy-go-lucky do-gooders.

"Well, it's a thought." Bucky shrugs, and lets his eyes slide closed. Settling deeper into the pillows. "An option."

"Fuck off." I grumble, shifting to get more comfortable. "Does this team have a name?"

"Something righteous." He chuckles. "Revengers, I think."

"Revengers? You've gotta be kidding me."

"No, no." His eyes flash open as he contemplates. "That sounds wrong. The Avengers. That's it."

"Avengers?" I snort, "That's still fucking dumb."

"Isn't it?" He agrees, smirking. 


	12. The Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is empty because like an absolute moron I deleted the entire thing when updating Chapter 13. I pasted over the whole thing and pressed update, in too much of a hurry to notice it said 'update' rather than 'upload', I'll get round to eventually posting it again, but I don't have the time now unfortunately, sorry guys!

I'm really sorry this space is empty, I'll get round to replacing it soon! Chapter 13 is up and waiting though! 


	13. The Confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the delay - I've had a dissertation to write and I'd almost finished the chapter when a glitch deleted the whole thing, and it physically sapped my soul to write the whole chapter again. But here it is! Hope you enjoy! Xo

The roots catch hold of my wrists and hold on tight. The more I struggle, the tighter they snag. My panic slicks down my skin, my hysteria bubbling out of my throat in great, gulping gasps that hurt my chest.

The sky is a storm above me. Roiling, furious clouds rumble, shaking the ground beneath my back.

I can't occupy myself with the sky because the roots around my wrists cinch tighter. When I take a breath and yank with everything I've got, my right wrist bursts free. But with the snap of the root and the force it takes to wrench free, my skin tares beneath the mighty pressure.

Funny, there is no pain that comes with the injury, but delirious terror rushes through me at the sight of my blood.

My momentary freedom seems to anger the trees fighting to hold me down. Immediately, roots reach for my ankles and one circles my stomach. They squeeze so hard my bones groan, and the sounds ripped from me are all horror. One around my stomach punches the air out of my lungs. I'm struggling to breathe around the fear and the restraints.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop." I'm begging. I'm writhing. Despite my panic, there is still fight in me.

But it rushes right out of me as one root, lethal sharp, inches, leisurely, around my throat.

This one tightens slowly. Takes it's time, and my screams seem to last an age as the root strangles me.

"Hey, hey!"

The edges of my vision start to cloud with smoke. I'm dying. Fucking hell, I'm  _dying_.

"Stop it!"

There's panic in that far-off voice, fear and pain, wound tight around the shouted words. That's not good. I don't want to hurt him.

"Love! Hey, it's all right. You're safe!"

Safe? How can he say that? Doesn't he see them? Doesn't he see that the life is being choked out of me?

"Wake up!" As he shouts the words he gives me a vicious shake, so hard it rattles my skull and hurts my neck.

My eyes flicker open.

The room is bright, too bright. I flinch and close my eyes against the glow, but the glance is enough to spot Bucky's stricken face poised above me.

"I'm awake." I tell him, my voice raw.

His grip on my shoulders slackens, but he doesn't let go.

Easing my eyes open, I search for the source of blinding light. Of course, it's my fault. My panic has leaked out of my dream and into reality, driving the fire high. It's massive, the flames belching out of the fire place, over the stone, all the way up to brush and blacken the ceiling. The heat is sweltering; Bucky and I are both drenched in sweat.

"Sorry." I mutter, scrubbing at my sticky face.

"Shut up." Bucky grunts back, and pulls me up into a sitting position with the grip on my arms. He brushes my hair over my shoulders and smooths a hand down my back. "You okay?"

The fire eases, grudgingly, back into it's proper place. Bucky watches it, eyes flicking between the shrinking flames and my clammy face.

My breath is still shaky, my hands even more so. He's got one hand braced on my shoulder, like he's worried I'll slump. The other soothes rhythms into my back, and I'm grateful for the solid weight. But actually, I could do with more than that. With a small, pathetic sniffle, I clamber into his lap and nestle into his solid warmth.

I could do with more. I could do with someone holding me tight, but Bucky is so funny when it comes to things like that. Plus, he told me only a few hours ago he doesn't want to complicate things. Doesn't want me to feel  _obligated_.

Then again, he fell asleep on my chest soon after, so I guess things are already more than a little complicated.

With a sigh, I settle my forehead on his metal shoulder, letting the cooler surface soothe my flushed skin.

"You all right?" He asks, and he anchors his free hand at the base of my skull, kneading at the aching muscles there. Enough contact to soothe me, but not so much that we're close. I'm the one clinging to his bicep.

"Dunno what happened." I grumble. "Doesn't usually frighten me this much."

"What was it?"

"Strapped down again." I shrug, nothing compared to the horrors he must see in his dreams. "Not that bad, really-"

He hushes me with exasperation. "Bad enough. But that's never going to happen to you again. Not ever."

"Who says?"

"I say." His hand slides from my hair to beneath my chin, and he lifts my head so that he can look into my face. His eyes are dark as midnight in the shadows of the low fire. "I would die before I let it happen."

His set jaw and scrunched eyebrows show it's a real promise. My heart quickens at the seriousness around his mouth.

"That's not funny."

"I'm not laughing." He shrugs. "Hydra can't have you."

"I'm not yours to keep, Bucky, or yours to die for." My voice is sharp, my eyes round.

"Aren't you?" He snaps right back, but his whole body freezes at his words, which burst out of him abruptly.

My insides tighten, and I wait, still as him, to see what words follow. But they seem lost to him.

It's a loaded question, and I don't know whether he'll continue or expect an answer. If he expects an answer, I'm fucking doomed.

Am I  _his?_

Here I was thinking he didn't want to complicate things, and he asks me a ridiculous question like that.

Why should I answer, anyway? Why should I agonise over his words? They came out of him, let  _him_  make sense of them.

Because I'm tired, and I'm aching from fighting my nightmares. The leftover fear from seeing my blood flow has left me agitated. It certainly has not put me in a mood to continue with this exhausting dance we seem to do around one another.

"Say what you have to say." I goad him, eyes narrowed on his face.

"I don't have anything to say." He mutters, shrugging his big shoulders. He's not looking at me.

"Course you don't." I snap, and I manhandle my way out of his space. I scoot backwards to my side of the bed, huffing and puffing the whole way. "You're so full of shit."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He grabs at my forearm, drags me back round to look at him.

"Aren't you  _tired_ , Bucky?" I demand, smacking his hand off my arm. "Of fucking...  _Hovering_  around each other? If you don't want me... Just  _say_  it, stop making stupid comments or doing stupid things that make me think otherwise."

He stiffens again. Course he does, this skittish companion of mine. All expression slides off his glorious, devastating face. He shuts himself off in record time. In doing so, he takes a chisel to the space between us, leaving a chasm that even my powers could not leap.

And there is my answer. He has promised to never be among the great magnitude of people who have caused me pain. And this is why he cannot say he doesn't want me, not because he's a coward or confused about his feelings. But because he knows it will hurt me, which means he knows that I want him, which is just... So fucking embarrassing.

I watch him struggle, and I cannot find space in my ravaged chest to help.

With a sigh, I turn my back on him and settle back on my pillow.

****

I'm not sure if either of us sleep. I certainly don't, but there's not courage in me to turn and check on Bucky.

I'm surprised that he stays in the makeshift bed. Too stubborn to leave though, I expect.

I lie there so long that weak sunlight nudges my sluggish mind towards havoc, and I cannot lie still anymore. Sitting up, I cast a glance towards Bucky, who is sleeping soundly. He's on his back, mouth open, breathing heavy. He'd sleep through a nuclear attack, I reckon.

Without disturbing him, I inch for the door and the freedom of fresh air. If the blinding, harsh white light is any indicator of the weather, I need another layer.

Thankfully, I brought clothes with me into the living room. Slipping on leggings, thick socks and then a hoodie over my sleep shirt, I grab a blanket too and then my shoes. That should do, and if it doesn't, I'll conjure some fire.

The landscape that greets me takes my breath away. Everything is covered in a thick blanket of snow. There are no other colours to offer, even the sky is pearly white with heavy clouds. Breathing into my hands, I make my way to the forest floor and set off in a random direction. I'll follow my own footprints back if I get turned around.

The cold isn't that bad, not really. The crisp, clean air is enough to clear my head and dispel the bundle of emotion that sits like a lump of coal in my chest.

It's not Bucky's fault. I have to remember that. There's nothing he can do about the way he feels. He was only ever being kind, looking after me the way he does. So the best thing for me to do is to go back, wake him up, apologise for being malicious, and promise him that it's just... Temporary. It's too late to pretend that I don't have feelings for him. I think it's been obvious for a while, and I think that him asking me if I was  _his_... It just, triggered something. I'll tell him that it'll fade in time, that it's nothing more than a crush.

Is it though?

Is it?

 _Still a fucking dumbass_ , a far-off voice snaps at me.

You've been awfully quiet, I retort. But I'm happy it's still around, watching out for me.

 _You've not been a moron lately, much to my surprise,_  it's a hiss of frustration.

And I'm being a moron now? I frown in the wake of this accusation.

 _Yeah, you fucking are,_  it snaps right back.

Funny, the voice never used to have an American accent, but it does now. Nor was it deep and masculine.

I kick at a snow pile. It seems Bucky has managed to infiltrate even the deepest pools of my subconscious. I'll never listen to that ridiculous voice ever again.

 _Thank god, does this mean I can stop watching you make stupid decisions?_  It grunts, and lord it really sounds like Bucky.

"Oh, piss off!"

"So I'm gonna assume you're still a bit mad."

I spin wildly, a shriek passing my lips as I realise that this voice very much exists in the realm of reality. Panting, hand on my chest to choke down my shock, it takes me a minute to even find Bucky in my panic.

He's stood opposite, wearing very little despite the blistering cold morning. The plain shirt he went to bed in, grey jogging bottoms, and a pair of boots with undone laces. His expression is cautious, his brows pulled low and his mouth a straight, hard line.

He looks... A little dishevelled. He's breathing hard and his hair is a mess, cheeks flushed and eyes a little wild. He sweeps me from head to toe, like he's checking for injuries.

"I'm not mad." I shrug, because it's the only thing I can offer.

"You just told me to piss off." He flicks up an eyebrow.

I mean... Technically, he's not wrong. "I was... Talking to the wind."

He folds his arms over his chest with a huff and lounges against the tree standing sentry at his side. "The wind?"

"Yup."

"Not me?"

"Nope."

"Not me, who you were furious with last night?"

"I think 'furious' is a strong word to use." I squint, wondering where he's going with this.

Does he... Want to talk about it? Bucky never wants to talk about anything. It would certainly explain his hunched shoulders and defensive stance. Like he's ready to run at any moment.

"Is it?" He asks, voice rough. "Because you said I was full of shit."

"And I believe that with my whole heart." I snort, "Why does this information surprise you?"

"It doesn't." He offers a jerky shrug, but his eyes are sharp and focused. His jaw clenches. "But it's the first time it hurt to know that information."

That stops me in my tracks, and my grin slides from my face. I turn to inspect the landscape, because it's hard to look into his eyes. We've never been exactly kind to each other. We've done our best to coexist, but it's not been easy. We've always irritated, always thrown insults like pillows at the other's face. He has always been content with my dislike, my disdain for him. Has thrown it back at me in an instant.

This change in him rattles me.

"You want me to apologise?" I demand, off-balance with uncertainty.

I can't help but look. The intensity he aims right back into my face makes me shiver. He is unnaturally still. His muscles bunched. It's like a predator waiting to lunge.

"No." He says, eyes unreadable. Dark.

"Then what are we doing here, Bucky?" I hiss, because I'm so unsettled by his full attention.

He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Seals his lips closed, pulls his dark eyebrows together in a rotten scowl. He even shakes his head a little.

The exhaustion that hit me last night hits me again. This stupid back and forth we have. Our absolute avoidance of anything that might open these jagged caverns in our chests.

I guess it is my turn to steer us away from anything complicated. "Why are you even out here? You're barely dressed."

His jaw tightens, "I woke up and you were gone." His voice has gone ragged and his eyes wounded. Hurt. _You left me_ , he says, without saying. Gone after an argument, after throwing my annoyance in his face. My chest tightens, but why should it? I'm not his to protect, to miss in the morning or to hold in the night.

"You thought I'd left?"

"I thought you'd left." He nods, slow and intent. I suppose I'm not the only one that's rattled.

I'm not sure how to continue. He woke up and thought I was gone. Of course, then he'd come to look for me - hastily, it seems - but now he has found me. Problem solved, right? So why is he looking at me like that? Why is he still stood there, so quiet and stoic?

"Okay, well." I shrug, agitated, because he offers nothing else. "I didn't. Seems like we're good here."

My dismissal seems to rocket Bucky into the realm of fury, because his eyes flash and his face twists.

"No we are not fucking  _good_  here!" He snaps, and I'm shocked by the force of it. "You disappeared!"

"So what?" I snort, astounded by his outburst. "I went for a walk, Bucky, it took you, what? Three minutes to follow me?"

"That's not the point!" He snarls, dropping his arms from around his chest. He's breathing hard.

"What's your fucking problem?!" I hurl right back, because I'm in no mood to stand here and take his anger.

"My problem is that last night I called you mine and this morning you were gone!"

My chest hurts. My stomach trembles. My arms cocoon the flimsy blanke around my torso. I suspect it will do nothing to protect me from the damage that I can feel coming from Bucky's words.

He looks panicked. Really panicked. Like he's on the verge of tears, like he's hurting just as much as I am. Like the world is ending and I've told him there's nothing I can do to stop it.

"You said that didn't mean anything." I accuse, eyes narrowed.

"I lied."

"You said you didn't want to complicate things." My voice wobbles.

"I lie a lot." He takes a step towards me, a long stride that brings him closer than I want him.

"Is there  _anything_  you've been honest about?"

"I was being honest last night." Those crystalline eyes fix on me. His face looks resolved but uncertain. Like he's decided we must have this conversation but he's dreading the process. "When I told you you're not obligated or that you owe me anything. Just because we're here and there's no one else around doesn't mean you have to settle for me." He's struggling with the words, a bit unsteady.

"Bucky-"

"But I want you to."

I'm floored. "Want me to what?"

"I want you to settle for me." He says it in a rush, and it takes a moment to figure out the words. When I do, it feels like the ground shakes under my feet.

"I... Don't understand." I murmur, because he has  _always_  been the one to pull away. He has  _always_  been the one to distance us.

He scrubs a hand over his face and shoves it through his hair. He looks anguished. "I know I must be the last person on this Earth you'd want. I stood by while you were being tortured. I helped keep you in that nightmare. I've not exactly been gentle with your recovery either. I'm old and I've got this stupid metal arm and too many scars and I'm a miserable fucking bastard. You deserve better. You deserve more than me and I  _know_  that, but last night you called me beautiful and so-"

"You're wondering if I might want you?" It's a ragged demand.

Pain and panic like I've never seen on that devastating face of his. "That's what I was wondering, yeah."

"Because you... Want me?" It sounds dumb, but my nightmares are vivid. And if I wake up in a second and find Bucky indifferent to me all over again my heart will collapse in my chest.

He seems to brace himself, takes a breath, looks me dead in the eyes. "Because I want you, love. I've wanted you for a while, I think. But I didn't realise how much until I woke up this morning and found your side of the bed empty. I've never felt fear like it, thinking you'd left. I never want to see that empty space again."

It feels like my heart has grown wings and is battering against the base of my throat, intent on flying skywards. It feels like the stars are calling my heart back to the heavens. Like the stupid organ has turned golden and wants to join the sun in the sky.

Bucky takes a tentative step towards me, and I do not back away. I watch him as he inches closer, watch his hands as they lift from his sides. His fingers outstretched, like he's coaxing me into calm, like he's showing a wild animal that he's no threat.

I feel less like a wild animal willing to lunge and more like a frozen animal bracing to flee.

But Bucky is slow and sure, and in no time at all his fingers pluck at the hem of my blanket and push it off my shoulders. He tugs at my wrists folded against my ribs and slides his arms around my waist. He steps closer, presses his thighs to mine and his stomach to mine and his chest to mine. I haven't breathed the whole time, and my eyes have been captured by his. He has not dropped his gaze, and there is nothing but apprehension on his face. He expects me to pull away.

"No." I say, and my voice shakes.

"No?" He says, and though there is a flood of disappointment, of defeat, he drops his arms immediately. Rocks backwards out of my space, eyes shuttering to hide the hurt I have caused.

I catch at his wrists, my grip strong. I look into those smooth grey eyes and I do not quail under their heavy weight. I use my weight and my strength to pull him forward into me.

"No." I say, as our bodies meet. "No, that wasn't close enough."

And I push up onto my toes and pull on his arms to bend him down, and up I roll to lay my lips on his.

Bucky makes a strangled sound but does not pull away.

He stands instead, not moving and not touching me. Focusing all his strength on that one movement of my mouth against his. My nose bumps his cheekbone, I feel his teeth behind his lips and feel the scruff of his beard against my chin. These small distractions I fixate on. If I do not keep myself grounded I am likely to drift off into the clouds or flop to the floor in a faint.

I drop back on my heels, disconnecting us. Bucky is left in place, eyebrows and lips puckered together.

My chest is pumping hard and my blood is pounding in my ears.

"You..." Bucky's voice is faint, and he passes his fingertips over his mouth, and then transfers them to mine. His touch is feather-light as he traces the curve of my bottom lip. "You kissed me."

"I did."

"How was it?" His eyebrows inch up.

"Pretty good."

"Good." He nods, and his metal arm slides around my waist. We're stood close already, but Bucky draws us together so tightly I'm having a hard time not standing on his feet. "Do you think you'll kiss me again?"

"Do you want me to kiss you again?" I'm smiling, teasing. His cheeks flush petal pink. I don't suppose mine are faring any better.

"I'd appreciate it, yeah." He shrugs.

"Well, if you're not too bothered-" I shift to move away, half-turning in the confines of his embrace.

He moves lightning quick. Sweeping me up into his arms so I'm balanced on the very tips of my toes, tipping into his embrace. Supported entirely by his strength.

"If you don't kiss me again-" He says, and the warmth of him heats me up from the inside. The bright intensity of his eyes on my lips, hungry anticipation on his face, might have something to do with it. "-I'll never forgive you."

"In that case-"

And he hoists me up and I tug him down, and we meet in the middle eagerly. He isn't frozen any more, he isn't shocked or stunned, he's alive under my fingers instead. His mouth moves insistently on mine. Then his tongue is in my mouth. And my stomach is gurgling with something that feels a little like joy. His arms are tight around my waist. He's making appreciative little noises in the back of his throat and I want to absolutely devour him.

"Bucky-" I gasp, and it's a broken, messy sound. "Bucky-"

His arms flex and he lifts me off the ground, and then there's a tree at my back and I'm flattened between it and him. My shoulder blades smart as he presses me tight to the rough surface of the bark. The solid expanse of him, around me, above me, makes my head spin. He consumes me.

My fingers scrabble at the hem of his shirt, and all I can think is that I want more of him. But the material will only go so far because Bucky's hands stay fixed on my body and refuse to move. So my palms flex and my power rushes outwards, and his shirt turns to ribbons of ash. He doesn't even seem to notice the fire that licks his flesh.

We pant into each other's mouths, our hands greedy as we pull and yank and grab.

The chill of the air has slipped away. The hold the snow had over me has yielded to the force of Bucky's warmth. When he pushes his hands under my shirt to lay his fingers on my stomach, the bite of the cold at my hips adds to everything.

He pulls away, breaking the kiss long enough for us to gasp mouthfuls of fresh air. The laugh that rasps out of me is shaky, and so is my hand as I run it down his face and over the swell of his shoulder. He rests his forehead against mine and breathes.

"You've ruined me, love." He murmurs, and it's a quiet, heartfelt admonition. "I didn't mean for it to happen, and it took me by surprise, but..." He shakes his head, smiles, kisses the corner of my mouth. "You've shattered my heart."

"Well," I say, breathless as I lay my palm at his scarred chest, right over the spot where his heart is thumping. Right where I have left the mark of my lightning. "You've fixed mine, Bucky Barnes. You've mended the broken fragments of my heart, and I'm grateful."

The smile that comes to his face is faint but beautiful. "I'll have to be gentle with it then."

And he is, he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping that the regular readers of this work might be absolute geniuses and wanted to ask if someone has been copy and pasting this story to their own devices or downloading it as they go? I ask because I'm in a right state, I've managed to delete the entirety of chapter 12 when uploading this chapter, I pasted chapter 13 over chapter 12 and failed to notice it said 'update' rather than 'upload', and now about 4000 words of story have been lost. Devastated, and before I try to rewrite it - poorly, no doubt - I wonder on the off-chance if any readers were saving it and could let me know? A true moron at work, I'm afraid. Hope you enjoyed the new chapter, anyway xo


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